


Jon's Moving Castle

by IceEckos12



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Howl's Moving Castle AU, M/M, Magic, Queerplatonic Relationships, brief cameos by basira, gerard as calcifer, i borrowed the basic plot of howl's moving castle but you dont need to have seen it before, jon as howl, martin as sophie, martin's poor self esteem, studio ghibli au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 107,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24151255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: Martin Blackwood may not have a perfect life, but hedoeshave a good one. That is, until a series of magical encounters leave him with an unfortunate curse. Out of other options, he goes to the wizard who lives in the moving castle for aid.Life never goes how he intends it to, though.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood & Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 1234
Kudos: 1241





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you notice anything that's been improperly tagged in this fic, then please just let me know and I will fix it immediately! and if you have an issue with the way im portraying a character or topic in particular, please shoot me a message to [my askbox](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/ask) and id be happy to discuss it with you.

Martin sits in his chair, studying the top line of the file in his hands. It’s one of those tricky ones again—there’s no author, and the organization that published it has long since gone out of business, so he knows that means that you’re supposed to organize it by title. But the title starts with the number ‘5’, and he can’t remember if that means it’s supposed to go before or after the alphabet…

Martin sighs and lowers the file to the desk, massaging the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve some of the pressure. He wonders at the point of it all, sometimes. This job is barely a step above useless busywork, and he’s _still_ underqualified for it. It’s just...putting files away, doing some followup on particularly interesting statements.

It’s maddening, quite frankly, especially now, with the day as nice as it is. The air is sweet with the first breath of spring, and the chill that had sunk into the bones of the Institute at the start of winter has finally started to fade. It’s the kind of day that makes Martin want to go outside and take a walk along the lake, or to bury his hands in the soft, loamy soil and try to make something grow.

But he is stuck here, in his own personal hell.

He almost startles out of his skin when there’s a knock on the door to the filing room. He turns around to find Rosie standing there, a sheepish smile on her face. She’s wearing a pink polka-dot dress, her hair tied up under a white bandana.

“Hello Martin. I was wondering where you’d run off to.”

Oh, Martin _knows_ that tone: she’s going to ask for a favor. He can feel it in his bones. He tries not to let the trepidation bleed into his voice, though. “Hi Rosie. How are you doing today?”

“Fine, fine,” Rosie starts twiddling absently with the folds of her dress. “Listen, Martin, do you think you could do me a favor?”

Martin has to bite down on another tired sigh. He does so hate being right. “'Course, Rosie. What can I help you with?”

Rosie looks so relieved that Martin feels a little guilty for being so uncharitably frustrated. She drops the fold of her dress and says, “Do you think you could pick up something from the patisserie for me? I’d do it myself, but I’ve got so much to do here…”

Thing is, Martin really _does_ know that Rosie’s got a lot to do. This is only one branch of the Institute, sprawled across the country like a many-legged spider. The Magnus Institute’s Headquarters is in the capital, and functions under the aegis of the king’s advisor. Rosie, being this branch’s liaison to headquarters, spends half her days in the capital, the other running errands in town.

It’s not like he was doing anything important, anyway. The work can keep. He’d wanted to go for a walk, anyway.

“Sure, Rosie,” Martin says. “Just write down everything you need, I can go now.”

Rosie beams. “I’ll put enough in for you to buy something for yourself, dear, how does that sound?”

Well, when she makes offers like _that._ For the first time since the start of the conversation, Martin feels a real smile cross his lips. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

Martin steps out onto the cobblestone street, a shopping list tucked into one pocket, and is almost immediately struck by a barrage of sound and noise. Rows and rows of uniformed soldiers march up the street, their feet striking sharply with every crisp step. _Ugh,_ he forgot that the army parade was today. He grimaces and heads down the alley the runs parallel to the Institute, which will take him off the main road and around the crowds.

Now that he's no longer being crushed under a deluge of military propaganda and people, the day is just as nice as he’d imagined that it would be. The trees are budding, and the shop doors have all been opened onto the street, letting customers meander in and out at will, their laughter carrying on the breeze, mingling with the hubbub of the parade in the distance. The clocktower which marks the heart of the city is gleaming in the sun, standing out all the more against the foggy, dour backdrop of the Wastes. There are no clouds in the sky, only the gleaming silver airships that buzz overhead, swooping gracefully in formation.

For a moment, he’s idly glad that his mother has a window in her room. Maybe the nice weather will cheer her up a bit. He bites his lip. Should he visit…?

Probably shouldn’t. If she’s in a good mood, his presence will only remind her to be dour.

Martin shakes his head and steps inside the patisserie, instinctively inhaling the warm scent of baking bread and the fragrance of cooking fruit. The shop is constructed out of stained brown wood, except for the stone floors worn smooth by years of consistent patronage.

It’s busy here today, more than he likes. Martin hesitates for a second before steeling himself and braving the crowd, shoving several people gawking at the colorful sugarwork out of the way to get to the counter.

“Georgie!” Martin calls, waving frantically to get her attention.

Georgie, a short woman with curly black hair and eyes as warm as the bread she makes, pauses in the middle of organizing the display and looks up. She searches the crowd for a moment, before her gaze lands on Martin, and she breaks into a smile. She gestures toward the back room, and Martin pushes the rest of the way through the crowd with no small amount of relief.

“Martin!” Georgie says, her smile widening as he leans over, panting at the effort it took to escape that mess. “Sorry about that. We always get more traffic whenever there's a parade.”

“I forgot,” he says, patting his chest faintly. The patisserie has been relatively empty recently, as the army has started to ration sugar due to the war. “It was a madhouse back there!”

Georgie hums in agreement and crosses her arms over her chest. “Running errands for Rosie again?”

Martin shrugs and smiles, finally standing up straight. “Well, you know how hard she works. I thought I would—”

“Do something nice for her, yes,” Georgie waves her hand dismissively. “You know that you _can_ say no to people.”

Martin can’t help but bristle a little. “It’s fine, Georgie. I wasn’t doing anything anyway.”

Georgie hums and fixes him with an unimpressed look, before shaking her head and holding out her hand. Martin pauses for a second, staring at her palm in bewilderment, before realizing that she wants his list. He flushes and presses the slip of paper into her palm, which she quickly skims before disappearing into the kitchen.

Martin sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels, relieved that he doesn’t have to wait amongst the crush of people in the main area. Georgie has been working at the bakery for as long as he’s been working at the Institute, and they’ve gotten to know each other reasonably well over the past few years. Not friends, perhaps, but long enough for her to figure out that Martin would rather conduct business where he can hear himself think. She’s been kind enough to accommodate him, which he is beyond grateful for.

A couple of minutes later, Georgie reappears holding a couple of bags full of thick, crusty breads and light, flaky pastries. Martin carefully checks to make sure everything is correct, before handing over the coin that Rosie had given him.

“How much is left?” he asks.

Georgie considers his question, then pockets the rest of the change. “Enough to get yourself a box of whatever you like. What’ll it be?”

Martin walks out of the store with a small box of chocolate eclairs tucked on top of the bread, feeling inordinately pleased. It’s been a while since he got something for himself like this, and the sun is shining, and—you know, he hasn’t taken a vacation day in quite some time. If tomorrow is as nice as today, he might just take the day off, do something nice.

He turns off the street and into an alley, the short cut that he always takes back to the Institute when the streets are this busy. It’s calmer here, quieter, and as lovely as the sunshine is, he’s starting to sweat a little.

Humming a tune as he goes, Martin cheerfully turns around the corner, patting the box of eclairs as he does so. He can’t wait to eat these. The patisserie has the best food, and it’s been far too long since he—

_What was that?_

Martin freezes and whips around, narrowing his eyes at the alley behind him. He thought that he’d heard a noise. _Are the shadows a little deeper than before?_

_Ridiculous,_ he thinks, shaking his head and walking forward again. _You’re jumping at shadows now, Martin, come on._

He gets a little bit further down the alley when the sound comes again—a sort of oddly familiar hissing. Not a snake, though. Where has he _heard_ that sound? He turns around again, and this time is rewarded with a flash of vibrant, poisonous green. _Shit,_ he thinks, and bolts.

His pursuer, whatever the hell it may be, gives up all pretense of stealth. It lets out a hiss—scratch that, there are a _cacophony_ of hisses, all layered on top of each other, blending and bleeding together. Martin dares a glance over his shoulder, and sees a wave of small, dark shadows with strange green eyes in pursuit. They ooze like blood across the ground, but that doesn’t seem to slow them down in the slightest.

_Shit,_ he thinks again, vehemently this time. The sun is still shining, and there’s still a box of eclairs in his arms, and this all feels _wrong,_ like he fell asleep in the middle of the sidewalk and woke up in a nightmare.

Is this a nightmare?

Martin skids across the corner of a building as he takes a turn to fast, and the jarring of his shoulder certainly _feels_ real. His vision goes slightly blurry, which is really _not_ convenient when he’s trying to outrun these crazy _eye freaks—_

Martin slams into someone. The bags of pastry fly out of his hands, and he lets out a shriek of shock. But—but that someone’s arms are wrapping around his waist, keeping him from falling, and a disgruntled voice is saying, “Can you _not_ stay out of trouble?” Which doesn’t _make any sense._

There’s a swooping sensation in his chest, and Martin’s feet are no longer touching the ground. For a second Martin is frozen, paralyzed, eyes squeezed shut, breath too fast. His feet are no longer—he’s—

“You can open your eyes, you know,” someone says waspishly.

“This is a dream,” Martin mutters. “I’m—I—”

“Not a dream, I’m afraid.”

Martin finally cracks one eye open, and is met with a sea of plain brown fabric. He opens the other eye, and blinks a few times to clear away the tears that have collected there. There are—still thin, spindly arms wrapped around his waist, and he’s—tucked against someone’s chest?

He finally looks up, and gasps quietly.

There is a man holding onto him, with long, wavy black hair streaked with grey, and blackish-brown, bloodshot eyes. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in a week, and there’s dark stubble on his chin. Most striking, however, is the way the man is glaring, as though Martin was being chased by creepy eye monsters specifically to inconvenience _him._

“I, um,” Martin tries not to curl into himself too much. “Thank you?”

The man hesitates for a second, before he lets out a sigh. “Sorry for being late. Hold on.”

Martin is just about to ask what _that’s_ supposed to mean— _sorry for being late?_ Like they were scheduled for a dramatic rescue _—_ but is immediately distracted by the man taking a step forward and _plunging through open space._ Martin lets out another undignified shriek and clutches at the man’s chest. When they finally stop falling, Martin forces his eyes open and looks down.

_Oh,_ he thinks faintly, tightening his grip as he’s immediately hit by a wave of vertigo. _That is very high off the ground._

They...seem to be walking on air. Well, the man is walking on air; every step forward is a dizzying spiral downward, and every rise of the foot is a buoyant lift higher into the air. Martin is just frantically clutching onto the man’s chest, hoping that the combination of his sweaty grip and the hold on his waist is enough to keep him aloft.

“Don’t look down,” the man snaps, a second too late. “Are you trying to get sick?”

“We’re flying!” Martin’s voice is high-pitched and squeaky, like a tea kettle just starting to boil. “We’re—what—”

“We couldn’t escape those things on the ground,” the man explains, and when Martin looks up, he’s looking intently across the town, he’s fixated on something far away. “Make sure that you avoid the backstreets, and avoid being alone from now on.”

Martin stares for a second (and now that Martin is situated more comfortably, he’s staring _down_ at him, isn’t he? His rescuer is much shorter than he’d originally thought), uncomprehending. They’re still walking, but he’s getting used to the motion now, and— “Is that it?”

The man finally looks down at him again, and _oh hello, you have very nice eyes sir._ “What?”

“You’re not going to tell me what those things are?” Martin demands, determined to ignore the realization that his rescuer is actually quite attractive now that he's not in fear of his life. “What do I do if they come back? Are they going to—to eat me?”

The man quirks an eyebrow at him—and suddenly they’re falling again, _really_ falling, not just the short drops that accompanied every downward step. Martin swears violently and clutches at the man again, desperately hoping that they are not going to become intimately acquainted with the ground, but they’re still falling—Martin feels tears leak out from under his eyelids, because _oh no—_

And then, just like that, they stop. Martin hangs there for a second, shocked, still holding on for dear life.

“Step down,” the man tells him, far more gentle than he’s sounded at any point over the rest of their journey, “and don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Martin only takes in the first half of that— _step down—_ and when he frantically opens his eyes and looks down again, the ground is right there. He lets go and drops, falls to his hands and knees on the hard cobblestones, fairly weeping with relief at having solid earth beneath his feet.

_I was almost eaten by eye monsters,_ he thinks hysterically, curling his arms over his head, his cheek pressed against the dirt. _And then I was flying! I almost died!_

By the time Martin finally gets ahold of himself, he looks up to find himself in front of his home, completely and utterly alone.

* * *

Later that night, Martin sits at his desk, a warm blanket draped over his shoulders, tea at his elbow, and stares at his notebook. The blank pages stare back, giving the impression that they’re taunting him. _Haha, you have no inspiration, you have no motivation._

He can write poetry. He isn’t bad at it, either. He just hasn’t been able to write anything since he started working at the Institute. He thought he might be able to write at least a little tonight, but he can’t stop thinking about the encounter with those creatures and the strange man.

_Sorry for being late._ Late for what? Martin certainly hadn’t called for a rescue, the man had just appeared. The help wasn’t unwelcome—Martin strongly suspects that his life was saved today—but the manner of his rescuer had been...odd. Brusque, interspersed with the odd moment of kindness. And what did he mean by _I’ll protect you?_ What sort of things does Martin need to be protected from?

Martin sighs and closes his notebook, knowing that he’s not going to get anything done today. The man, the encounter, is swimming circles around his head, distracting him from all else.

He’s just setting his half-finished mug of tea next to the sink when there’s a knock at his door. Martin pauses for a second, frowning. _Who could it be this late at night?_

His mysterious rescuer pops into his head for a moment, but he quickly dismisses it as wishful thinking. There’s not a chance that the object of his thoughts for the past several hours is just going to show up on his doorstep. Maybe it’s a neighbor, or a delivery, even if it _is_ rather late for one. Regardless, he’s not going to find out by just standing in front of his sink wondering about it, so he shuffles on a pair of slippers and goes to answer the door.

There’s a man at the door, but it is not _the_ man. Martin is disappointed by this fact, even though he knows that he shouldn’t be. He gives the stranger a quick once over—beard, craggy, weathered skin, crystal blue eyes, wearing what appears to be a sailor’s uniform, maybe some sort of officer, stripes—and smiles politely. “Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

The stranger smiles. It’s not a particularly friendly expression, though Martin can’t for the life of him say why. “Hello! Martin _Blackwood,_ isn’t it? My name is Peter Lukas. Mind if I come in?” 

Martin has never heard his name said in that sort of tone before. He’s heard contempt, yes, condescension, certainly. The way Peter Lukas says his name is like he knows Martin intimately and is sincerely regretting it.

Martin tightens the blanket around his shoulders, a feeling of foreboding rising in his chest. “May I ask why you’re here?”

Lukas waves a craggy, dismissive hand. “Nothing to worry about. I’m here on official business from the Institute.”

“O-Oh!” Martin almost steps back to let Lukas in, but forces himself to hold his ground. As curious as he is about the incident, his rescuer’s warning from earlier is still ringing in his head. “Do you have some sort of...identification?”

The smile on Lukas’ face twitches, but he obligingly pulls out an identification card and hands it to Martin. Martin studies it for a moment (eyebrows furrowing in confusion when he realizes that this man is from headquarters), before shrugging and handing it back. It looks official enough.

“Come in,” he says, finally letting Lukas in.

Lukas sweeps in as if he owns the place, giving the sparse, plain room a clinical glance before pulling off his hat and setting it on a peg. He doesn’t take off his thick woolen jacket, however, instead just unbuttoning it and letting it flare out around him when he sits down on the couch.

“Tea?” Martin probes, trying not to let on how disgruntled he is.

Lukas shakes his head, gesturing toward the chair across from him. “No, this won’t take long. Why don’t you sit down?”

Martin’s frown darkens, because what kind of a person tells someone to sit down in his own home?—but no, he doesn’t want to draw this out any longer than necessary. Even _his_ patience, which is longer than most, is beginning to fray. He sits down in the chair and folds his hands carefully over his lap.

“Very good. Now, I’m here regarding an encounter that you had earlier today? With, hm...a man, and perhaps some monsters?”

Martin almost jolts right back out of his seat. “How did you know about that?” The capital is almost four hours away, and the incident had happened almost three hours ago, which meant Lukas must have taken a faster, more expensive route. He hasn’t told anyone, so how…?

Lukas’ grin widens. “Shall I say, headquarters likes to keep a close eye on its employees. We’re very invested in your health and safety. Now, do you think you could tell me what exactly happened?”

Martin opens his mouth. Closes it. _Those monsters had eyes in them,_ he thinks, and though he hadn’t made the connection before now, all he can think of is the symbol of the Magnus Institute: a big, green eye. Peter is smiling at him, still charming, still ruggedly handsome, but his eyes are hooded and dark.

“You know what,” Martin decides slowly. “Would it be possible for me to write a, um, a statement and deliver it to the liaison to headquarters in the morning?”

Lukas’ smile finally fades. It’s such a little thing, but it changes his whole face. Not sinister, but...coldly calculating. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. It would be best if you spoke with me now.”

“No,” Martin is more and more sure of his decision by the second. “No, I don’t think so, sir. Write me up to headquarters if you like, but you should go.”

Lukas rises to his feet, and Martin shivers a little, wrapping his blanket tighter around himself. “That’s a really bad idea, Martin. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Martin rises to his feet in kind, though somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice is telling him that there is something very, very wrong. He pushes it away, and instead marches to the door and holds it open. “Please leave, sir.”

_Look at his feet,_ the little voice says, and Martin glances down just long enough to see the...fog? Steam? Gathering on his floor. He looks back up at Lukas’ face quickly, but he can’t get a read on the man’s expression. _Magic user?_ Martin gulps. He’s never met one before, but he knows how dangerous they are. He immediately becomes very aware of the fact that he is currently shaking and very defenseless in his brightly colored slippers.

After what feels like an age, Lukas sighs. “You know, I don’t like doing things the hard way.”

Martin says nothing. He’s not sure he’ll be able to hide the tremble in his voice if he speaks.

Lukas watches him for a moment longer, and then—

There’s a sudden, violent rush of cold wind, and Martin slams his eyes shut and shivers violently, pressing his blanket as close as he can. He feels like he’s about to freeze solid. He feels like he’ll never be warm again, like he’s standing outside in the cold, like—

And just like that, it’s over. He’s still shivering, still cold, but the wind has stopped, and the blanket around his shoulders is actually providing some warmth. He looks up and around, frowning, but Lukas is no longer in his living room.

“Come find me when you’re tired of being alone.”

Martin almost jumps out of his skin for the second time that night, because that’s Lukas voice and it’s coming from _behind_ him—

But no one is there. His doorstep is as empty as his living room.

Martin hesitantly walks down the stairs and looks up and down the street, but it’s...empty. The only sign that the whole meeting wasn’t a vivid, stress-induced hallucination is the fact that there’s a lingering layer of cold fog on his floor.

“Oh, I did not like that,” Martin mutters, before heading back inside and locking all of the locks on his door.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Martin keeps a suspicious eye out on his way to work. He knows that he must look insane, peering down every alley and speeding up whenever he thinks he sees a shadow move, but he thinks that he’s warranted a bit of leniency considering he was accosted not once, but _twice_ yesterday. Luckily, most people don’t give him more than a second glance.

He’s shaky and a little sweaty by the time he gets to work, not to mention late. He shoots Rosie a quick hello and doesn’t give her time to respond before making a beeline toward his desk. There’s a pile of files for him to follow up on, and another that are finished that he needs to organize.

Martin stares at the mess for a moment, bewildered, before remembering that he actually has to _work_ and not just worry about the possibility of getting attacked by random magicians. _Right,_ he thinks, and finally feels the tension that he’s been carrying in his shoulders all morning. He takes a deep breath, then another, forcing himself to relax.

“Get ahold of yourself, Martin,” he tells himself sternly, and slaps his own cheeks for emphasis. There are still bills to pay, and all that.

Halfway through the morning, Martin realizes that there’s a second file that he needs to reference for a followup. He sighs, gathering his notes in his hands, and makes his way over to Anita, one of his fellow archival assistants who’s been working here for far longer than he has.

“Hi Anita,” he says. “How are you today?”

Anita blinks a little, frowns, then shakes her head, like she’s trying to get rid of a fly buzzing around her head.

Well that’s a bit odd. “Anita?”

Her frown deepens, and she finally looks up. Her eyes scan the room, and her gaze skitters strangely over Martin before...it keeps going.

Martin’s jaw drops. What the hell?

“Anita?” he asks, his voice jumping an octave. “Anita, can you...this really isn’t funny.”

Anita finally looks at him, really looks at him this time, not just absently skimming over him. She rubs her eyes and squints. “I’m sorry, sir, but you really shouldn’t be back here. This is an employees only area.”

Martin’s stomach drops into his toes. He and Anita have known each other for a bit, but she’s not the type to play jokes like this, not with him. Why on earth—

Recollection slams into him like a punch to the chest. _Come find me when you’re tired of being alone._

“Sorry to bother you,” Martin says, quickly backing away. Anita lets out a noise of agreement, before turning back to her work, seemingly forgetting that he exists.

Martin watches her for a moment, breathing hard, before hurrying to the front desk, heart pounding _._ “Rosie,” he says urgently, gripping the desk. “Rosie, please. I need to—to talk to you, I forgot the pastries yesterday, don’t you remember?”

Rosie takes a second too long to respond. Her lovely grey eyes are hazy and distant, like she’s looking through him rather than at him. “I’m...sorry, sir. Can you please repeat that?”

Martin recoils, taking a few stumbling steps backward. He holds his hand to his chest, feeling every beat thrumming through his fingertips. _Still alive, still alive._ Rosie is still watching him, the frown of confusion slowly turning into worry.

“Sorry,” Martin whispers. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’ll go. I’ll go.”

And then he turns tail and runs.

He makes his way back to his apartment, his thoughts a muddle of panic and fear. Now that he looks at it, now that he’s paying attention—no one on the street is looking at him, their gazes skimming over and past him without acknowledging his existence. It’s like he’s—not quite invisible, because Rosie and Anita had looked at him, but—he doesn’t know. He doesn’t _know._ He can’t think.

 _You are panicking,_ he tells himself. _Stop that._

It’s very difficult to calm down, however, when he can hear his blood roaring in his ears, and he’s breathing so fast that his lungs feel as though they’re about to cave in. Somehow he knows that—this is Lukas’ fault. He’s not sure what this is, he has no idea what kind of magic would _cause_ this phenomenon, but—

Martin stops in the middle of the street, staring into the cobblestone as realization strikes him.

No. Hold on.

About two months ago there had been a statement about a woman who had fallen out of reality. How had she described it— _I existed, but my friends and family didn’t remember me. People looked right through me, as though I wasn’t real._ When Martin had done followup, there had been a small handful of related statements from the past few years of the same phenomenon.

This is the same, isn’t it?

 _Think, Martin,_ he tells himself, wrapping his hands around his elbows. _How had she solved the curse?_

She’d broken the curse by going to the moving castle for help. How had the statement put it...she had traded something precious for a way to break the curse.

Right.

Martin gulps, slowly turning to look out over the city, toward the mountains in the distance. The sun seems to fade into the fog, sucked up like light into a blackhole. Maybe it would be better if he goes to the capital and just...fesses up. Give Lukas what he wants.

Martin would like to think that he doesn’t scare easily. He’s not excessively brave, but he’s never shied away from what needs to be done. But the moving castle...well.

First of all, the castle is in the Wastes, an area which wizards and sorcerers and magical creatures have claimed. It’s dangerous enough on its own. But the moving castle...it appeared out of nowhere almost five years ago, and has continued to haunt the Wastes. A powerful wizard supposedly lives there, turning people away or granting wishes at whim.

All hearsay, of course. Maybe the wizard is nice.

 _Or maybe he’ll kill me and turn my bones into paste,_ Martin thinks, shivering. He just...doesn’t know what to do. Would it be so bad to live like this? Martin thinks about living alongside reality, ignored by crowds, drifting from one place to another. His mother wouldn’t have to be disappointed in him anymore. He could just...be, never have to deal with anyone’s expectations ever again.

But...who will pay his mum’s medical bills? Oh, god. What will happen to his mother, stuck in care? And...he’ll miss Georgie, and…

Martin shivers again. Living like this, it sounds hellishly lonely. Martin doesn’t like to deal with people in large groups, but that is by choice, not because of a _curse_. So no, living like this is not an option.

Does he want to brave the Wastes? Well...no, not exactly. But Martin remembers Lukas’ smug face, and he remembers how certain the man had been that he would come to him, and...no. He has a bad feeling about Lukas.

 _Maybe the wizard is nice._ Oh, this is a terrible idea. But it’s the only one that he has.

Thirty minutes later, Martin is sitting on a cart ambling up the path toward the Wastes, a small bag of food and clothes clutched in his hands. The man driving the animals hadn’t noticed him clamber on, but Martin doesn’t think he’ll mind too awfully much. He watches the scenery as it ambles past, inhales the soft scent of meadow grass, ignores the kingdom's air barges, the supply ships for the war, drift over the mountains and toward the fighting, out of sight.

At the fence on the edge of the Wastes, Martin finally slides off and flicks a coin into the man's cart. He knows that he doesn't need to, but he feels somewhat guilty for hitching a ride without asking. Then he turns and faces the mountains, his bag clutched to his chest, and marches forward.

He pauses for a moment in front of the wall of fog, warily watching the swirling haze.

Everyone has to walk through the fog to get to the actual Wastes. Martin’s heard that it’s full of magic, and some have even theorized that it can steal your soul. Which is ridiculous, of course. Plenty of people have gotten in and out of the Wastes, only a little worse for wear. He should be fine.

 _Buck up, Martin,_ he thinks, and strides into the fog.

The fog immediately settles on his skin, in his chest, making it feel as though he's walking underwater. It doesn't bother him at first, but it gets harder and harder to breathe as he goes forward. His clothes are plastered to his skin, and he keeps having to take off his glasses and clean them in his shirt. He gives up after the third time, because his shirt is so wet that it just smears the water on his glasses.

He's exhausted and soaked through—maybe this was a mistake, maybe he should just go back, maybe he’s lost and he’ll die here—when he finally breaks above the layer of fog and gasps in pure, clean air. He stands there for a moment, blinking owlishly at the scattered light breaking through his glasses. Then he takes off his glasses, opens his bag, and finds the driest garment of clothing to wipe them off on. That completed, he shuffles over to the nearest boulder he can see and climbs up on it, before removing his sodden socks and shoes and laying them out to dry.

“Go to the Wastes, get supernaturally soaked,” he mutters as he jerkily removes his sandwich from his bag, which is thankfully dry enough to be edible. The crisps are a lost cause, though, and he tosses them to the ground. “It’s not enough that I’m cursed, _ooooh no,_ I have to account for sudden freak weather patterns as well?”

The sandwich does not answer, which is to be expected. He takes a retaliatory bite anyway, chewing furiously.

_Thunk._

Martin almost drops his sandwich and twists around, staring in the direction of the noise. He is suddenly reminded of the fact that magical creatures live here, creatures that may or may not be dangerous. He tightens his hand on his sandwich. He doesn’t want to, but he will throw it as a distraction if necessary.

There’s nothing that he can see, but he knows better than to trust his eyes. He slowly edges to one side of the boulder and peers over the side, and _oh my god that is a leg._

“Oh my god!” Martin shouts, stuffing his sandwich back into his bag and jumping down from the boulder. The leg—and there’s another one now that he’s paying attention, that is an actual person facedown in the bushes—waves enthusiastically. “Stay where you are, I’ll get you out!” 

Martin grabs the leg, and immediately freezes, because there is something very, very wrong. The leg is...harder than a human leg should be. The skin isn’t giving like it should.

Martin lets go of the leg and slowly backs away, the skin of his palms crawling where he’d grabbed onto that odd material. The legs are still waving pathetically, the bushes rustling and moving as whatever’s on the other end struggles to get free. Now that he’s paying attention, he realizes that the movements look a bit odd, a bit too stiff to be natural, human motions.

“You’re not about to curse me, are you?” Martin asks. The wheeling legs don’t respond, just get more enthusiastic in their movements.

Oh, this is a terrible idea.

“Hold still, I’ll help you get out. You better not try anything,” he warns, grabbing onto the legs again and tucking them under his armpit. The thing obviously understands him in some capacity at least, because it goes obligingly still as he untangles it from the vines and leaves that it somehow got caught in. “How’d you _manage_ this?”

Five minutes and some enthusiastic swearing later, Martin is face-to-face with what appears to be a mannequin. Its face is pure white, with soft divots for the eyes and a faint smile where the mouth should be. It’s clothing is a bit strange, though; it’s clad in a maroon and gold military uniform, with shiny black boots and a jaunty hat.

“Uh,” he says faintly. “Hi?”

The mannequin waves. Martin gets the sense that it’s grinning at him.

“You’re a bit odd, aren’t you.” Martin slowly moves closer, feeling more bold now that he’s sure he’s not about to get attacked. “I—hm. You’re welcome for the save, I guess?”

The mannequin gives a short, jerky nod, and then removes its hat with what could almost be considered a flourish. Martin finds himself laughing at the motion, delighted.

“I suppose that’s a thank you.” That uniform is strangely familiar, but he can’t place where it’s from right now. He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t happen to know the magician that can break this curse, do you?”

The mannequin puts its hat back on and salutes. Then it turns on its heel and begins walking up the path, its military march flawless except for the inhuman crispness of every step. _I am taking directions from a mannequin,_ Martin realizes. It's not the weirdest thing that's happened to him over the past two days, though, so he just shakes his head and hurries after the creature.

They walk in silence for a while, Martin keeping one eye on the ever increasing fog, one eye on the mannequin. He doesn’t think that it’s going to try anything, but he’s been wrong before. After a while, the silence gets to be a bit too much for Martin, as it always does.

“Lived here long?” Martin asks, and then wishes he could take the words back as soon as they come out of his mouth. _Lived here long?_ God, that’s painful.

To his surprise, though, the mannequin lifts one stiff hand and wiggles its wrist back and forth. _So-so._

Hm. Not only can it understand gestures, it can copy them in meaningful ways during a conversation.

“I hope I won’t have to be here a while,” he continues cautiously, keeping one curious eye on the mannequin. “The fog doesn’t mix well with my constitution. And I’ve got responsibilities and such at home, you know.”

The mannequin nods in understanding, like that makes perfect sense. Martin narrows his eyes, comprehension beginning to tug at his brain like a fish on a line. He opens his mouth to ask—

But the mannequin moves suddenly, slapping one hard, surprisingly powerful hand against Martin’s chest. He bends at the waist, clutching his poor chest, wheezing for breath, because damn, this mannequin hits _hard._

When he can finally speak again, he straightens and demands, “What the hell was that for?”

It takes him a moment to realize that the mannequin is pointing into the distance, a little down the path. Martin follows the finger and sees—

“Holy shit,” he breathes, backing away.

The moving castle is nothing like Martin had expected. He’d expected—an actual, literal moving castle, stone and stately, with turrets and expensive, stained glass windows and the like. He hadn’t expected _this,_ this hodgepodge of filthy houses stacked on top of each other, sloughing together, peppered with different sizes and shapes of windows at random. He hadn’t expected the house to be propelled by thin, spindly mechanical legs, ending with three metal toes. There are two enormous chimneys on top, seemingly emerging from nowhere, spewing great clouds of steam into the air. Now that he’s listening, he can hear a faint clattering in the distance, the rattle of moving parts and the expulsion of air.

Then he tilts his head to one side, and the picture resolves into something more concrete. The houses occupy a sort of shape—a giant, spindly legged monster. The part which is facing ‘forward’, or at least in the direction which the castle is walking, has what appears to be a giant mouth, and two giant, misshapen windows on either side that look remarkably like eyes.

“Is it alive?” he turns to look at the mannequin, who doesn’t move, still pointing forward. “Mr—sir, is that thing alive?”

The mannequin shrugs one shoulder, but doesn’t stop pointing. Martin turns to look up at the monstrous castle again, his emotions a tumultuous knot of fear and fascination.

“I’m not so sure about this.” The words come out before his brain has fully caught up with him, but they’re _true._ Would it really be so bad to live life like a shadow, when the alternative is throwing himself on the mercy of the magician that controls a machine like _this?_

Martin almost jumps out of his skin when something hard and stiff bounces off his shoulder. He looks over to find the mannequin at his side, and then the creature hits his shoulder again, but lets its hand rest there. _Is it patting me?_ He wonders, staring in befuddlement. _Is a mannequin trying to reassure me?_

Then the mannequin moves, faster than he had thought it could. It grabs Martin by the shoulders, and shoves him forward.

“Mr. Mannequin!” Martin squeaks, clawing frantically at his bag. “Mr. Mannequin, I’m going, I’m going! This really isn’t necessary!”

The mannequin keeps shoving, though, and doesn’t stop until Martin is running toward the castle at top speed. _Well,_ he thinks hysterically, _I guess I’m really doing this._ Sure. Why not. Sometimes you just have to accept that you might get eaten by a magical castle while trying to cure your invisibility curse.

Then he realizes that there is a slight issue.

“Hey!” Martin huffs, turning to look at the mannequin, who is now running beside him. He can barely hear himself over the clank and scream of the joints of the castle. “How do I get in?”

The mannequin points again, and Martin follows its finger with his gaze, squinting to try and see through the fog. There’s a small lump beneath the lowest part of the castle—maybe some sort of ground entrance?

“Thanks, Mr. Mannequin!”

As he gets closer, he sees that it _is_ a ground entrance. There’s a small flight of stairs leading up to a wooden door, but it yaws and heaves sickeningly with every step of the castle’s spindly mechanical legs. He gulps nervously. He’s never been all that athletic. To his surprise, though, the mannequin speeds by him and latches onto the railing next to the stairs. It turns around, still running at the same steady speed, and reaches out a hand for Martin to take.

 _I can’t believe I thought you were an evil creature who was going to eat me,_ Martin thinks, takes the mannequin’s hand, and uses it to help launch himself onto the bottom step. He teeters for a moment with the lurch of the castle, but quickly rights himself, the stiff hand on his back a steadying force.

Martin stands there for a moment, gripping the railings, letting himself get used to the movement of the castle. When he finally feels like he’s not about to fall over, he turns around to help the mannequin onto the stairs with him.

The mannequin is gone.

“Oh no,” Martin gasps, looking frantically around for his new friend. The fog has grown thick, though, so much so that he can barely see the ground directly in front of him. “Mr. Mannequin!”

There is, predictably, no response, not even when he calls for several minutes. He’s surprised at how disappointed he is by the mannequin’s absence; the creature was beginning to grow on him. He hesitates for a moment, before cupping his hands around his mouth and calling, “If you can hear me, thank you!”

There is still no response. Martin sighs, lets his hands drop to his sides, and turns to walk into the moving castle. 

The room that comes into view as he walks up the stairs is small, cozy, and a complete and utter mess. The room is dominated by the enormous, sooty hearth, which looks as though it hasn’t been cleaned since last century.

There’s a desk against the wall across from the hearth, stacked high with various books and papers, pencils and stationary scattered about like tasteful decor. The clutter of books and the like spills from the desk to the floor, transforming into towering pillars, which appear to morph into a bookshelf at some point. Now that Martin looks harder, there _do_ appear to be stairs leading into the higher levels.

“Shit,” Martin mutters, and starts gamely wading into the mess. “Hello? Anyone home?”

“It’s rude to come in without knocking.”

Martin leaps backward and lets loose a stream of words that should not be repeated in polite company.

“Sorry,” there’s a soft rustle, and then the quiet thud of something dropping to the ground. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Martin looks up, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue, and then stops. Squints.

There’s a man standing in front of him, but Martin’s never seen a man quite like this before. He’s pale and strikingly tall, wearing what appears to be a black trench coat of some indeterminable material. He’s wearing black trousers and black military boots, spattered with straps and shiny buckles.

That’s not the most distinguishing feature, though. No, that honor goes to the burning orange eyes, like Martin’s staring into a blazing fire, and the way the man’s black hair fades into rusty red at the roots.

Another thought occurs to him: the man is standing right next to the great ugly hearth. The noise that Martin just heard…

“Did you just come out of the fire?” he asks incredulously.

Those burning orange eyes seem to pierce right through Martin, but he doesn’t let it scare him. He’s just walked into the castle of a wizard that may or may not decide to eat him, or whatever magicians do to unsuspecting sacrifices. He will _not_ be intimidated by a quite literally burning gaze.

The man lifts his hands, and Martin can’t even bring himself to be surprised when they burst into flames. “Yes,” he says evenly, slowly turning his palms over before shaking out the fire. “I did.”

“Huh,” Martin says, staring at the now plain, non-burning skin.

“You’re looking for the wizard, then? To break you of that curse?”

Martin swallows. “Um…how did you know about that?”

The man quirks one rusty red, unimpressed eyebrow. “I can see it on you. You wear it like a...a shadow, maybe. A fog. It obscures you.” He smirks. “But nothing can hide from my eyes.”

The more he watches those burning orange eyes, the more aware he is of the fact that they’re not precisely _orange._ There’s flickers of gold, red fading around the dark edges of the iris, like...like a flame.

“I’m sure,” he responds warily. “So...is there someone here that can help me, or should I leave, Mr….?”

“Oh, please, call me Gerard.” Gerard smiles, and Martin is surprised at the way it transforms his whole face into something softer, less terrifying. Almost human. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve been told that my skin is too hot to handle.”

Martin lets out a burst of nervous laughter. “Martin, and duly noted.”

“Anyway,” Gerard continues, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the hearth. “You’re actually in luck, since I might be the only person in the Wastes who _can_ help you.”

“... _what?”_

Gerard tilts his head and gives Martin a long, slow onceover. “You haven’t tried to talk about your curse yet, have you?”

“I—” Martin shakes his head. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Tell me what happened when you got your curse,” Gerard is watching him steadily, but Martin can’t get a read on his thoughts.

“Well, I mean,” Martin struggles to shift his thoughts from the oddness of this conversation, this whole _situation,_ to the seemingly mundane encounter he’d had...yesterday. God, that was _yesterday._ “I had this, um—”

And then Martin stops. He doesn’t mean to stop, but he _does,_ the words stuck in his throat like a rat caught in a trap. He opens his mouth, closes it again. He can feel his eyes widen, but he doesn’t care, why can’t he _speak—_

“Hey,” Gerard snaps. “Breathe. You can’t talk about the curse because the curse _itself_ won’t let you talk about it.”

Martin shapes his mouth around his thoughts, trying to get them out. Finally he gasps out, hoarse and shocked, _“What?”_

“It’s a common enough mechanism,” Gerard had moved closer while Martin was panicking, and his hands are hovering awkwardly at his sides, like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching out. “Curses are always more effective if you can’t explain the circumstances surrounding them.”

Martin massages his throat, unsettled. “...right. Right.”

“I can help you,” Gerard finally relaxes again, leaning back against the hearth and folding his arms back over his chest. “But before that, I’ll need you to do something for me.”

Oh, _god._ “What...do you need?”

Gerard is watching him intently now. “I’m under a curse as well, as is the wizard who lives here.”

Martin blinks. “You’re not…?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “That would be Jon. I’m just the keeper of the hearth. I make sure the castle keeps moving, stays together. But the curse that Jon and I are under, it binds some of my power. I can’t leave the castle, and I certainly can’t lift your curse. But if you break _my_ curse, then I’ll be able to burn off yours, no problem.”

 _Burn off yours._ What an odd choice of words. “And the wizard— _Jon_ couldn’t do it?”

“In theory I suppose he could,” Gerard acknowledges with a regal tilt of his head. “But he doesn’t have eyes like mine. People with magic will be able to see through the curse to some extent, though there are unfortunately still going to be some side effects. The point is, they can’t fix what they can’t see, and they won’t be able to see the curse _itself._ ”

Martin pauses for a moment to organize his thoughts. _I’ve been put under a curse that I can’t talk about. Gerard can help me, but to do so, I need to break the curse on him and Jon. Simple enough._ Except for the fact that he doesn’t actually know anything about curse breaking. “And how does the curse affect Jon? You said that it was tied to him too, right?”

Gerard’s face darkens, and the shadows around the edge of the room roil. Martin catches little flickers of turquoise in his glowing eyes, shadows of green, that burn like coals. “The curse bound his heart.”

“Bound his…what?”

Gerard reaches up and taps the left side of his chest. “His heart doesn’t beat anymore. He’s distant, too. You’ll notice what I mean.”

That is _also_ a good point. Martin scratches his hand through his hair, dragging his curls away from his face, feeling far, far out of his depth. He was _working_ yesterday. Yesterday, life made sense. “Even if I _did_ agree to this—which I shouldn’t by the way, I don’t know the first thing about breaking curses—what am I supposed to tell the wizard? I think he’ll notice if there’s a random person hanging around.”

“Easy. Tell him that I hired you to be a new assistant, and you’re here to help organize things in exchange for food, board, and a small stipend.”

Martin freezes. Gives the room, the wall to wall mess, one long, slow look. Turns pointedly back to Gerard, who grins sheepishly.

“It makes sense. We certainly need it.”

Martin holds his incredulous gaze for one more moment, before sighing deeply and dragging his hands through his hair again. He just...this is all happening so fast. He doesn’t know if he can trust Gerard, he feels so out of _depth_. He wishes that there was someone he could talk to about this, but he’s standing in this strange, magical place far away from home, and—

“Is there any way I can take some time to think about this?” he asks desperately.

Gerard opens his mouth to respond to that—and then pauses. Blinks slowly and tilts his head to one side, like he’s listening to something that Martin can’t hear.

“I’m sorry, but you’re out of time,” Gerard shakes his head. “Jon’s coming. Stay or leave, but decide quickly.”

“What?” Martin gapes. No, _no,_ he needs more _time,_ he can’t _commit_ to this—

 _“Decide_.”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. Now even _he_ can hear the sound of footsteps thudding down the stairs, getting closer, and Gerard’s burning eyes are watching him, pinning him in place.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Deal.”

Gerard grins at him, triumphant and toothy. “Call me Gerry.”

And then they both turn to face the man on the stairs, the mysterious Jon.

 _Oh my god,_ Martin’s mouth drops. _It’s him._

Black hair, streaked with grey. Heavy, dark eyebrows hanging over bloodshot, sleep-deprived eyes. _The man who’d rescued him from the eye creatures._

“Gerry,” Jon says, picking his way across the piles of books while Martin looks on mutely. “We’ve got an order from town. Who is this?”

Thankfully, Gerry jumps in, saving Martin from having to be coherent. “He’s my new assistant, Jon. I finally got tired of the mess.”

Jon moves a book from one towering pile to another, completely ignoring Martin’s existence. “I-I said I’d get around to it eventually, didn’t I? I’ve just been—”

“Busy lately,” Gerry finishes calmly. “I know, which is why I hired help.”

Jon stutters to a halt next to the desk and finally gives Martin a quick once over. That one glance is enough to tell Martin everything that he needs to know—Jon doesn’t recognize him, or he’s pretending not to, at least. Or maybe it’s Martin’s curse—there seems to be some sort of memory component to it, and Gerry never said what side effects Jon would experience.

He clears his throat. “I just need a place to stay. I won’t cause much trouble.”

“I’ll vouch for him,” Gerry adds. It takes Martin everything he has not to shoot him a surprised look.

Jon glances at Martin, scowls, and looks back at Gerry. In the short time they have been speaking, Jon has moved three notebooks from one stack to another, crumpled up a piece of paper and tossed it into the hearth, and stuffed three pens in his pocket, like he’s trying to prove that he _can_ organize, thank you very much. “I don’t need help.”

“It’s my castle, and I can hire who I want.”

Jon finally pauses in the middle of his frantic organizing. He meets Gerry’s gaze, and they stare at each other for a moment.

“Fine,” Jon says. Then he whips around and marches up to Martin, who takes a few startled steps backward. “Can you research? You have experience organizing, yes?”

“I file things?” Martin squeaks out.

Jon narrows his eyes, as though he’s sincerely doubting the validity of that claim. Then he shakes his head and moves away, giving Gerry an accusing look as he stalks by, like a particularly disgruntled cat. “He better be good.”

“He’ll be fine, you brat,” Gerry shoots back, and then reaches out, quick as a snake, and flicks Jon's braid.

“Gerry, would you _stop that!"_

Martin lets out a low, disbelieving breath. What the hell has he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone is wondering:
> 
> martin's curse is two pronged. first there is a notice-me-not component, which anita and rosie helpfully demonstrated. the second part is a subtle shape-shifting component, which martin would notice if he looked in a mirror. it's not as dramatic as sophie's, but it's just enough to turn his features into something bland and unremarkable. it's easy for magic-users to see through the first part, but since the shape-shifting is physical, that cannot be seen through, which is why jon didn't recognize him. double-layered curses are twice as effective!


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Martin wakes up with the sun, puts on a dust mask, and immediately attacks the mess in the living room. He has more of a vested interest in the living area being clean than he did the day before. Gerry apparently sleeps in the _fireplace_ (what the hell), and thus had given Martin a blank, confused look when he asked where he was supposed to sleep.

Martin had eventually given up and made a nest out of some books and a couple of blankets on the living room floor. Needless to say, it had been a long, uncomfortable night.

He’s taken aback by how much quieter the castle is when it’s not moving. The screams and the hissing of the castle had lulled him to sleep, but the silence is almost oppressive now, broken only by the soft thud of books being placed on top of piles, and the swish of the broom.

Almost an hour in, there’s a stirring in the fire. Martin turns and frowns at it, watching as the flames grow, and grow, and _transform,_ and then Gerry is pulling himself onto the edge of the hearth.

“Hi,” he says, giving the room an appreciative look. The castle lets out a long, low groan. “You’ve been busy.”

“I’m surprised you two have managed to live like this for so long,” Martin remarks, throwing one of the books into the ‘not salvageable’ pile. It was obviously not closed properly before someone put another book on the pile, because most of the pages are ripped and mangled.

“Jon is upstairs so often he generally doesn't notice what sort of state the downstairs is in,” Gerry admits. “And I don’t really care. Technically I don’t have to leave the fireplace. It drives Sasha up a wall, though.”

Martin frowns at the unfamiliar name. “Sasha?”

Gerry makes a noise of realization which lengthens into a yawn, accompanied by a symphony of creaking. “I forgot to mention. Sasha is Jon’s assistant. She comes and helps out with his research during the weekdays.”

“Oh,” Martin jumps when the castle shudders and rises a little. He looks at Gerry, who still appears to be waking up, then around the room, taking in the rumbling, slow way the castle is rolling into motion. He has a growing, impossible suspicion. “Are _you_ doing that?”

“Doing what?” Gerry asks.

“Moving the castle,” he elaborates, gesturing around. “It started moving when you woke up.”

The look on Gerry’s face is half-amused, half-wry. “That’s right. My magic powers the castle, so it goes where I want it to.”

“Huh.” Martin doesn’t have a lot of context for how magic works, or how much magic it would take to power an entire _castle,_ but he has a feeling that it’s a lot. Yesterday, Martin had gotten the feeling that Gerry wasn’t the sort of person to be messed with, but now he thinks that he has proof.

The only question was, how could someone as powerful as Gerry get caught up in a curse?

Martin opens his mouth to ask exactly that, when there’s a loud, sudden _bang!_ from upstairs. Gerry and Martin fall silent and look up in unison.

“Was that—?” Martin begins.

“Yeah, hold on.”

There’s nothing for a couple of seconds. Then another crash, the sound of footsteps thudding across the floor. A muffled voice. Then the footsteps again, except louder this time, closer. And then Jon is striding down the stairs, his face covered in a layer of soot, his clothes in a state of disarray.

Gerry quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t mean to tell you how to live your life, Jon, but—”

“Oh, _hush._ One of my experiments blew up, _”_ Jon drags his hands absently through his long, tangled hair. He glances up at Gerry, and physically jumps when he notices that Martin is _also_ standing there. Then he looks around, as though finally taking in the small, clear patch in the middle of the floor, free of debris. “Right. Well, you’ve already messed up my organization system, but—”

Martin gapes. “Excuse me?”

“Jon,” Gerry interjects, sounding pained.

“It _is,”_ Jon insists. “Or it was. It may not _look_ nice, but I _do_ know where everything is—”

“Really?” Gerry asks. “So you know where that Arcane Arts book that I gave you as a gift last year is, right?”

Jon opens his mouth to respond, but then sees the look on Gerry’s face and obviously thinks better of it. Instead he turns to Martin and says, a touch more politeness than before, “I have a certain way that I’d like you to organize things, so if you could wait for me to show you, that would be great.”

“Right,” Martin says, suddenly feeling very, very small.

Jon nods brusquely and turns away, marching back up the stairs to terrorize his experiments, or whatever he does up there. Martin stands there for a moment, watching him go.

“Hey,” Gerry whispers.

“Hm?”

“Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop that.”

“I—” Martin frowns, befuddled. “What?”

Gerry looks pointedly toward the ground. Martin follows his gaze, and gasps when he sees a thin layer of fog gathering around his feet.

“There are certain things that make curses stronger,” Gerry explains quietly, while Martin frantically waves the broom around his feet to disperse some of the smoke. “Try not to take him personally. He’s being rude, but he’s usually kind.”

 _“_ Sure about that?" Martin mutters.

Gerry just laughs.

Ten minutes later Jon wanders back downstairs, his hair pulled into a neat bun at the nape of his neck. He’s changed his clothes and is now wearing a sweater-vest and a pair of tan trousers that look so crisp it’s a wonder he can move his legs. Gerry takes one look at him, rolls his eyes, and climbs back into the fire.

“Right then,” Jon begins without ceremony. “I can show you how I want things organized. Pay attention. _”_

Martin desperately wants to ask if being rude is his _normal_ state of being, or if it’s just because he’s really that against someone cleaning the castle. He bites his tongue, though, and mentally notes down every word Jon says.

Jon finishes without ceremony and turns to leave, but then Martin halts him with a question. “What should I do with the books or files that are not salvageable?”

Jon stares at him blankly. “Excuse me?”

Martin reaches over, finds the book that’s been mangled, and holds it up. “I assume that you don’t want to keep this.”

“I—” Jon stares at the book for a moment, befuddled, before shaking his head and taking it from Martin. “Just leave them in a pile. I’ll get to them myself later. Anything else?”

Martin thinks about the system for a moment. It’s not bad, but it seems a little...complicated. He’s not willing to argue with Jon, though, not when he seems determined to criticize everything he says and does. “All fine.”

“Good,” Jon says, nodding brusquely. Then he heads down the stairs to the door to the Wastes and…

Martin tilts his head curiously as Jon reaches for a string to the right of the door. On the other end of the string is a large circle divided into four segments, each segment a different color: red, green, blue, and black. There’s a marker at the very top of the circle, which is currently indicating the green segment of the circle.

Jon pulls on the string, and the circle turns one quarter to the right, so that it’s now indicating the red segment. He opens the door, and—

Martin lets out a startled gasp, because the scenery has _changed._ No longer is there the dreary Wastes, covered in fog. He can’t tell properly from this angle, but he _does_ see a tawny cobblestone street lit by the sun.

 _We haven’t moved, though!_ Martin thinks, amazed.

He almost stumbles and falls as Jon brushes past him, the door still open to those clusters of cobblestone. He quickly heads down the stairs to get a better look at the odd, segmented circle, but is almost immediately distracted by the fresh breeze blowing in, the way the sun warms the incoming air.

The sky is cloudy but the day is still warm, and the smell of flowers carries from somewhere far in the distance. There’s other smells too; salt, something vaguely fishy, baking bread, the fragrance of musk and hard work. The buildings are different from the ones at home, though; their exteriors are mostly stucco, painted bright, shimmering colors, the roofs made of clay. Wind chimes hung with glittering shards of sea glass hang from the doors, and walls and windows are speckled with shells.

He turns around, but there’s no castle here, no mishmash of houses stretching into the sky. It’s just...a door to a normal house. There's even a _'The Army Wants You!'_ poster on the wall.

“Wow,” he breathes.

“First time?”

Martin turns and looks at the speaker. It’s a woman, almost half a foot shorter than him. Her long, curly brown hair is tied into a neat half-ponytail, and her brown eyes are warm and friendly. She’s wearing black trousers that end just above her tawny ankles, soft brown shoes, and a comfortable, flowing blue blouse embroidered with white daisies.

Martin instantly adores her. Her smile is warm and kind, and she doesn’t look like she could immolate him in seconds, or like she’s planning on murdering him with the stationary.

“Yeah!” Martin smiles at her. This must be Sasha, if she can see through the curse. “This is _amazing._ Where are we?”

She chuckles, not seeming at all off put by his breathless excitement. “This is Rollins. It’s the biggest port town on the eastern coast. And _I’m_ Sasha, Jon’s assistant.”

Her hand is firm and warm as they shake. “Martin. I’m Gerry’s assistant, though that just means keeping the castle clean.”

Sasha raises a surprised eyebrow. _“Really?_ Finally. It’s been getting to be a bit of a nightmare in there. I haven’t been able to find anything by myself in there for...ever, actually.”

Martin shakes his head and sighs. “I’ve really got my work cut out for me.”

There’s a rattle from the stairs behind them, and they turn in sync as Jon strides outside, books and glass beakers stacked in his arms. He’s so small, Martin’s surprised he doesn’t just fall over under the weight.

“Sasha!” Jon calls. He frowns when he notices the army poster on the wall, and juggles his cargo so that he can rip it down before continuing. “We’ve got an order. Cough tincture. I have some followup for you to take care of while I’m doing that.”

Sasha rolls her eyes and whispers conspiratorially, “Duty calls.”

Martin chokes out a laugh, and then heads back inside to tackle the mess once again. Jon and Sasha have a stall set up outside, and are in and out all day to fetch things from inside the house. Martin hadn’t thought to ask what they were doing in Rollins, too distracted by the _teleporting door,_ but apparently they run a sort of magic business, selling spells, tinctures and the like in between doing their research.

Halfway through the day, in the middle of scrubbing at a bit of ominous black mold that may or may not have magical origins, a thought occurs to him. Martin frowns and turns to the hearth. “Gerry?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then the fire shifts, grows, and Gerry’s upper body is draped over the side of the hearth. The lower half is still lost in the flames. Martin stares, blinking slowly.

“Yes?” Gerry prompts, propping his head against his hand.

“Right,” Martin utters faintly, before shaking his head and pressing onward. “Can I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“What sort of research are they doing here?”

“Oh,” Gerry says, straightening up a little bit. “Well...some clients have bad run-ins with magic, or magical creatures.”

Martin thinks back to his rescue not two days ago and shudders.

“Some people come to Jon looking for answers,” Gerry continues, rolling over so that he’s lying on his back, long hair cascading over the hearth, arms folded over his chest. “Some people want us to tell them what happened to them. Some people are just looking for closure, and want to talk. Jon and Sasha record these statements, and followup if requested.”

Martin hums thoughtfully. _Same as the Institute._ It makes sense that there would be small, independent businesses such as Jon’s where the Institute’s influence doesn’t reach.

By the end of the day, Martin’s made some headway in the main area. It’s amazing how much bigger the room is now that he can see the carpet. He thinks that it’s almost enough room for him to have a place to sleep. Maybe he’ll unearth a couch in a few days, and he’ll _really_ be able to live in the lap of luxury.

Sasha wanders back inside, Jon a few steps behind her. She blinks at Martin, in the middle of cleaning the bricks that make up the hearth, and then at the room at large.

“Wow, Martin!” she grins. “This looks much better. Right, Jon?”

Jon drops a couple of books and a file on top of one of the piles at random, and Martin has to resist the urge to shout at him, because he’s trying to instate some sort of filing system. That’s what he’s _here to do._

Jon seems as pleased with Martin’s work as Martin is with him. “I’ll be going through it later to make sure that nothing has ended up where it shouldn’t be.”

Martin’s stomach tightens. Jon doesn’t even _know_ him. Why is he questioning his competence?

Sasha glances at Jon, then at Martin, her eyebrows furrowed. “Jon, that’s not really…”

“If I’m being saddled with an assistant, I’m going to make sure that things are organized to _my_ standards.”

Sasha shoots Martin a wide-eyed look but he avoids her gaze, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Saddled?”

“Gerry did not consult me regarding Martin,” Jon says petulantly.

Sasha looks into the fire blazing merrily in the hearth, then up at Jon, her eyebrow raised incredulously. “Jon, I hate to point this out, but Gerry literally cannot leave the house. How could he have hired someone on his own?”

Jon pauses for a moment, and the expression that Martin only catches the tail-end of knocks the wind out of him. There’s an uncertain twist, a touch of unease, like he’s asked himself the same question. Now that he thinks about it, Jon had given up a little _too_ easily yesterday. Gerry had said, _it’s my castle,_ and Jon had backed off, despite how obvious it is that he doesn’t want Martin here.

Then Jon straightens, the moment of vulnerability tucked behind his usual, dour scowl. “It’s Gerry’s business who he does and does not hire.”

“Right,” Sasha says, and then shakes her head in disbelief. “Well Martin, if it’s any consolation, I think that you’re doing a _great_ job.”

Martin smiles at her. “Thanks, Sasha.”

“Good _bye,_ Sasha,” Jon says, rolling his eyes.

Sasha shoots him a dirty look, but gathers up her stack of files anyway and heads down the stairs. “Bye Martin, bye Gerry! See you tomorrow!”

“Bye Sasha,” Gerry’s voice crackles from the fire, startling Martin in the middle of waving her goodbye.

The moment the door closes, Jon jogs down the stairs and tugs on the string until the circle lands on the green segment again. He cracks open the door, then shuts it again with a sigh and comes back up the stairs, brushing past Martin to poke through the stationary still scattered across his desk.

It is at that precise moment that Martin’s stomach gurgles loudly. He feels himself flush a bright red, suddenly remembering that he hasn’t eaten since the sandwich yesterday.

They stare at each other, the silence heavy and awkward. Then Jon says, as though having an epiphany, “You...need to eat, I assume.”

 _You need to eat?_ Martin wonders. _Implying that you_ don’t _need to eat?_ “Yes, please.”

The wizard nods brusquely and starts navigating around piles of books to get to the far wall. He reaches a ragged tapestry hanging from the ceiling and shoves it aside, revealing a set of cabinets.

Jon opens them up, revealing a pathetically bare set of shelves. “We have...hm. I'll need to do more shopping soon.” Jon peers into the shadows, as though expecting for more food to magically appear. “...bread. And cheese. I think I see an apple...”

Martin hurries over as quickly as he can, accidentally dislodging piles as he goes. There _is_ in fact bread and cheese and an apple, but there’s only one of each. He shakes his head. “If you give me some money, I’ll go shopping tomorrow.” He glances over into the cabinets again, and has another realization. “You don’t even have any tea!”

Jon flushes, but he looks a little uncertain, like he didn’t think to be embarrassed about the food situation until it was slapped in his face. “I—um. I’m. That’s not really necessary...”

“You might as well, Jon,” Gerry calls from across the room. Martin looks over at the hearth and finds that Gerry has once more draped himself artfully over the side. “Meals are part of the contract.”

Jon glares at the man. “I’ll pour water on you.”

Gerry raises his eyebrow, unimpressed. Jon looks away first.

“Fine,” he says shortly. And then he stalks away and flops down on the floor next to the organized stacks of books, grumbling as he begins to poke through them.

Martin watches Jon for a moment, hands on his hips, disbelief and incredulity warring for dominance. Little food, no _tea._ Martin’s a good cook, he can stuff Jon full of tea and some home cooked meals, maybe put a little meat on his bones so that he stops looking so damn _cold._

He pauses.

Wait a minute.

He just—just bullied Jon, who is kind of, sort of his _boss._ The more he thinks about it, the more horrified he becomes _._ That was so _rude._ It's just...he's always placed more value in cooking than other people do, and has unfortunately become rather passionate about it.

He plucks at his cuffs, biting down on his lip hard. He should...probably apologize. He really let things get away from him. Martin opens his mouth, an _I’m sorry_ hovering on the tip of his tongue, when Jon turns away from the pile of books and barks, _“Mar_ tin!”

He jumps, twisting his fingers together anxiously. Maybe he’s about to shout at Martin. It’s not like he wouldn't’ deserve it. “Y-Yes, Jon?”

Jon opens his mouth, then shuts it again and frowns. He squints a little, then rubs at his glasses. Martin looks down, and realizes that fog has once again begun to gather at his feet. He waves it away, and hastily makes his way over to Jon. “What is it?”

Jon looks up at Martin, his frown deepening. Just when Martin is afraid that Jon is going to ask about the fog, he lifts a book triumphantly and says, “What is _this?”_

Martin stares blankly at the book for a moment. It looks no different from any of the other books; it has a navy blue cover, a metallic green border, and no title. “A...a book?” he guesses.

“Very good,” Jon says dryly, and Martin bites down on an annoyed scowl. “You have correctly identified the object. Now, explain to me why this book was in the wrong pile?”

Martin suddenly no longer feels the urge to apologize.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't planning on posting this chapter today but in honor of MARTIN KARTIN BLACKWOOD i just. i had to
> 
> martin if you're reading this ilu king
> 
> also slight warning for this chapter: just like in canon, this martin ties his worth to how useful he can be for people. there is a manifestation of that here (which will be addressed later in the fic, we got a ways to go yet!). there is also mention of his mother yelling at him. please be warned.

Martin wakes, and the castle is still dark and silent, Gerry’s fire a low, smoldering pile of embers in the hearth. He lets out a quiet sigh, rubbing some of the sleep out of his eyes, and tugs one of the blankets he’d slept under around his shoulders and gets to his feet. His back is still sore from sleeping on the floor, but not quite as bad as yesterday.

He stretches and yawns, before blearily meandering down the stairs and opening the door.

Fog billows about the castle like waves rolling around a ship on the ocean, and when Martin opens his mouth, morning dew sits heavy on his tongue. The sun has long since risen, but the castle is untouched by its golden rays. It’s...nice. It’s completely different from the city, never silent, bustling and bright. It’s a good kind of different, though. Calm.

Martin takes a step back and shuts the door. The circle sits like a spider above the hinges, and he considers it for a moment, the four different segments that it’s cut into. _Green for the Wastes, red for Rollins._ There’s still the black and blue, though.

 _I wonder where they go,_ he thinks, reaching for the string.

The castle groans, and Martin jumps and guiltily looks up the stairs. He’s not sure whether or not he’s allowed to be messing about with the door, even though it’s _right there._ He lives here now, surely he should be able to do as he pleases.

“Martin,” Gerry’s head appears over the staircase, one eyebrow raised.

Martin smiles back, trying to ignore the feeling that he’s just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

There’s a moment of silence. A sigh, and the sound of footsteps thudding down the stairs. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”

“I don’t know, actually,” Martin responds, rubbing his arm. “No offense, but Jon doesn’t seem to like questions very much.”

“Well,” Gerry shrugs with one shoulder, and tugs on the string until the pointer is on the blue segment. “Jon is being a bit of an ass.”

Martin barks out a startled laugh. He doesn’t get a chance to react further, though, because Gerry is pulling open the door, revealing what’s on the other side.

Martin gapes. _That’s...the capital?_

He’s only been to the capital once, but he would recognize that architecture anywhere. The castle was almost overcome by supernatural monsters barely a century ago, and the city learned its lesson. Every building is stylish but sturdy, with no windows on the first floor. The dome of the palace, the oldest building to have survived the invasion intact, gleams in the distance.

He only gets a couple of seconds to look before Gerry is firmly shutting the door. “Now you know what’s behind that door. I wouldn’t recommend going here too often, though. Jon and certain members of the king’s court, well...let’s just say they’re not on good terms.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Martin mutters under his breath. Then, “Where does the black one lead to?”

Gerry hesitates for a moment, before taking a step back and shaking his head. “It’s not for me to say where it goes. But it’s not safe.”

“Not safe?” Martin asks, curiosity piqued.

“This is a wizard’s castle. There are going to be areas that aren’t safe.”

That doesn’t really answer the question of why this area isn’t safe in _particular,_ but Gerry’s already heading back up the stairs, the castle creaking to life around him. Martin sighs, tugs the blanket tighter around his shoulders, before heading up the stairs after him. One of these days he’ll get a straight answer.

Martin is just deciding that he’s going to clear a path from the hearth to the desk today when Jon stumbles downstairs. He’s making pawing motions at his hair, like he’s trying to put it into a braid, but doesn’t quite have the dexterity to do it yet.

“Gerry, why are you—oh.” Jon’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click when he sees Martin. “You’re still here.”

“I—yes?”

Jon lets go of his hair and squints, wavering back and forth, like he’s uncertain what to do with himself. Martin tries very hard not to find it endearing.

“You said something about shopping yesterday,” Jon says at length, not quite a question, not quite a statement.

“Oh—” Martin perks up. “Yes! If you give me a shopping list and a bit of money, I can—”

“Just get whatever you like,” Jon interrupts. “Besides meat and bananas. Or, well—I, I don’t care if _you_ eat meat and bananas. I just won’t eat them.”

“Uh...okay. Is there anything you actually _like_ to eat, or…?”

Jon _harrumphs._ “Food is a distraction. I am _busy.”_

“Oh, god _forbid_ you have to submit to things like hunger,” Gerry pipes up from the fire.

“ _Shut up,”_ Jon says, rolling his eyes. “Just—get whatever you like within reason, and bill it to me.”

And that...doesn’t sit right with Martin. For him, food has always been a way to connect with people. He enjoys making food for himself, of course, but the act of sharing with others, making them happy with his cooking...it’s far more satisfying. The idea of treating food as a burden, like it’s a cold transaction being made to keep his body moving, is just…

“If I cook, would you like to have some of what I make?”

Jon pauses, staring at Martin, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “...what?”

Martin flushes. “It’s just—you don’t have to, to eat what I cook if you don’t like it, but, um…”

Jon glances toward the fire, as though he’s hoping for a rescue, but Gerry is silent. “You don’t—it’s, uh, I’m not giving you money because I want you to cook for me, it’s in your terms that—”

“It’s not that!” he shakes his head, mortified. “I want to. I like sharing food with people.”

“Oh,” Jon says, and then falls silent. He looks like someone’s just handed him a puzzle, and he’s slowly trying to put all the pieces together, searching for some ulterior motive. He eventually shakes his head, apparently unable to find one. “Fine. That’s...fine.”

Martin nods, relieved.

Unfortunately, Martin’s gotten so used to being around magic users that he completely forgot about the reason he’s stuck in the castle in the first place. Namely his curse, which makes shopping far more difficult than it normally needs to be.

“Hello!” Martin says cheerfully to the woman at the stall.

She doesn’t respond, just keeps moving back and forth between her produce. Martin’s smile fades, and he glances uncomfortably upward. Threatening grey clouds cover the sky, and the breeze is heavy with humidity. Martin really wants to find everything before the downpour starts.

“Miss, hello!” He feels a bit rude, but when she still doesn’t respond, he leans forward and carefully waves his hand to try and get her attention. “Please, can I—miss, please—”

Finally, she blinks blearily and peers upward, as though trying to see through a dirty lens. “Oh? I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t see you...”

“No, that’s fine!” Martin tries very hard not to show how disgruntled he is. Instead he pulls out his shopping list and makes an encouraging motion. “I’d just like some of your produce, if you don’t mind, billed to the, um—Mr. Jonathan Sims? I have his seal, if you like…”

The woman hums distractedly, turning back to her produce like she’s already forgotten about him.

“No, miss, please—”

Every other interaction he has in the market that day follows the same vein. The baker’s eyes keep glancing by, the butcher snaps at him for having to raise his voice to get the man’s attention, and everything is _so much more difficult than it needs to be._ He wants people to stop looking through him rather than at him. He just wants to be _seen._

And it starts raining halfway through the day. So there’s that.

By the time Martin finally finishes, he is soaking wet from the rain, his socks squelching with every heavy, plodding footstep. He really, really just wants to curl up in a proper bed.

Oh yeah. He _can’t._ Because he still doesn’t _have_ a bed.

Martin keeps trudging back to the moving castle, not so much dripping as _waterlogged,_ his shoulders curving more with every persistent drop. His glasses are fogging up with every breath, or maybe it’s the curse, but quite frankly he doesn’t _care_ anymore—

The world in front of him clears just enough so that he catches the shapes of two silhouettes in front of a familiar doorway, like twin shadows behind a dirty window. He lets out a long, slow sigh and heads in their direction, tightening his grip around his basket and trying not to look as pathetic as he feels.

Jon’s voice is sharp, and just as startling. “What took you so long? You’re soaking wet. You’ll get water on the _books.”_

Martin stops for a moment. Drips on the cobblestones, feeling small and stupid and flooded. Some small part of him wants to punch Jon in the nose. The rest of him is still heavy and weighed down into the earth, gravity twice as persuasive as usual.

Eventually he says, “Okay, Jon.”

“Are you alright?” Sasha this time, genuine worry in her voice. Martin’s vision is still too hazy for him to make out any distinctive features.

“Jus’ a bit wet,” he mutters, and shoves past them into the moving castle.

“Make sure that you dry yourself off!” Jon shouts after him.

Martin sets the groceries beside the stairwell, and then quietly, efficiently strips his wet clothes, except for his underclothes, and lays them down on the hearth. Then he shuffles into a jumper and a pair of trousers, wipes his glasses, and sets about putting the groceries away, into their proper places. Mentally makes a list of all the things he could make tonight, discards the ones that include meat. Puts them back in, because there are substitutions that he can make.

Tofu is generally the go-to option for a meat substitute, but he knows plenty of foods that are intended to be made without. Currys made with chickpeas or paneer, heavy on the spice and rich in flavor. Creamy or acidic pastas, laden with herbs, topped with pungent parmesan or pecorino romano. Crusty, thick sourdough breads, slathered with honey and butter.

There’s got to be something in this world that will make Jon happy.

Martin pauses, a jug of milk in his hand, and stares into the cabinets, at the sparkling clean patch where there had been a thick layer of dust. He knows, simply and without question, that if he looked down, he’d be up to his ankles in fog.

(He remembers—he remembers coming home, all bright smiles and eager-to-please enthusiasm, a small bundle of flowers in his hands. His mother’s face had bunched up upon seeing the flowers, and then she’d shouted at him for tracking mud into the house and walked away.

Martin had spent the whole rest of the evening cleaning. He’d thought that maybe, if he did the right thing, just came at it from the _right angle,_ she would—would—)

Martin sets down the milk jug. Scrubs his hands across his face, shakes his head at himself. _Stupid._

Then he goes to carve out a path to the desk.

* * *

Jon ends the day the same time that he had the previous day. Sasha waves a friendly goodbye to Martin, who nods his head in acknowledgement before carefully scooping more semolina flour into the well of eggs that he’d made.

Martin can feel Jon’s presence behind him, a dark, curious gaze boring into his back. He tenses up, biting his lip at the weight of those eyes, the way it makes him feel like there’s a spotlight shining over his head. He steadfastly ignores it though, losing himself in the rhythmic kneading motions, the way the dough comes steadily together under his fingertips.

“When did we get that table?”

Martin shrugs one shoulder tiredly. “I excavated it.”

Jon hums, and the presence behind him draws closer, and oh, Martin _really_ doesn’t like that.

“Do you think you could check the organization on the area I just did?” Martin prompts gently. He is fully aware of the fact that he is inviting criticism, but cooking is something that he prefers to get lost in. Jon’s gaze shoves him right back into his own skin, but it feels weird. Ill-fitting.

Jon lets out a _harrumph,_ and then those sharp, precise footsteps recede ever-so-slightly. Martin sighs quietly and focuses on what he’s doing with his hands. He layers the table with more flour and digs his palms into the dough, until the surface is smooth and supple. He wraps the ball in a few towels, and leaves it on the edge of the table with a satisfied sigh.

“Why are you doing that?”

Martin chokes and reels around, barely managing to catch himself on the low table he’d been working on. “Jon, don’t—sneak _up_ on me!”

“Sorry.” The response is shamelessly unapologetic, and Martin scowls at it. Then Jon approaches the resting dough curiously, like he’s just spotted a potential new client and is trying to figure out what they’ll say to him, what secrets they’ll reveal. “Why did you wrap the dough like that?”

He would usually be ecstatic about going into the science of cooking, but he’s still feeling disgruntled. He turns back to the table, grabs a knife, and pulls one of the onions toward him. _Slice horizontal, then vertical._ The blade makes a satisfying sound against the cutting board. “It needs to rest before I roll it out and cut it.”

Jon hums again, and Martin once more hears footsteps moving away. He lets out a sigh of relief and finishes cutting the ingredients for the sauce. It won’t be anything fancy, just a simple tomato sauce. He’s not in the mood to make something impressive.

And now comes the hard bit.

Martin walks past Jon, now curled on the floor around one of his books, and approaches the hearth.

“Uh, Gerry.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then a burning face emerges from the flames. “Yes, Martin?”

He swallows nervously. “So, I’m, um, I’m cooking right now, and you’ve got such a lovely fire going over here, and I was just wondering if it was possible if I could…?”

There is a moment of silence. Martin is not all that talented at reading faces that are on fire, but if he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Gerry was gaping at him.

“Martin.”

“Yes, Gerry?”

“You do understand that this is _my_ fire. This fire is an extension of myself.”

“Is that a no?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So?”

“I just wanted to make sure that you understood.”

“Do you see any other heat source in this house?”

They pause and turn to look at Jon, who folds his shoulders over and buries his nose a little deeper into his book, like he’s trying to let himself be eaten by it.

“You can have some,” Martin tries, even as he wonders whether or not Gerry can actually eat food. “It’ll be really, really good.”

Gerry raises his eyebrows, surprise flickering across his face. Or that could just be the fire. Martin’s having a hard time telling. Whatever’s going on his brain, though, he chooses to keep it to himself. “Fine.”

Martin beams. He picks up the table and carries it across the room, setting it down next to the hearth, where Gerry is now watching him curiously. The onions go into a big, cast iron skillet which he sets over the smoldering coals on the edge of the fire. Once they’ve gone soft, he tosses in the garlic, and then the crushed tomatoes, a little sugar, some basil, and leaves it to simmer. Time is the most important ingredient in this recipe.

He reaches for the ball of dough, and almost leaps out of his skin when he realizes that Jon is at his elbow again, studying the simmering pot of sauce. Martin can’t get a read on his expression.

“...can I help you?”

Jon jumps, as though he’s forgotten that Martin was there, and pulls away, frowning. “No.”

“Jon?” Gerry asks, and there’s something oddly quiet about his voice, a gentle touch on an old scar.

Martin doesn’t understand what’s going on, why the mood has changed so quickly. But there’s a faint, pained look of confusion on Jon’s face, and a living sadness living behind Gerry’s eyes, almost palpable. There is something going on here that Martin does not understand.

Jon makes an aborted motion toward his chest with his right hand, and then lets it sink to his side. “It’s nothing,” he says, shaking his head. Then he turns on his heel and walks quickly back toward the books, his shoulders tense about his ears. He walks like he expects for someone to stop him, like he’s expecting an attack.

Martin watches him as he finds the book again, opens it up with small, scarred hands. On his other side, Gerry studies Jon, eyes half-lidded, hair fading into burning curls of flame, and Martin feels suddenly, intensely alone. He shouldn’t. He knows that these two have history together, but...he’s wistful for the way that they understand each other, their connection.

Stupid. He turns back to the pasta dough, and gets to work. No one interrupts him again.

Twenty minutes later, Martin carefully scoops the pasta into three bowls he managed to unearth from under one of the heaps of stuff. The finishing touch is a bit of grated parmesan and basil.

Gerry lets out a pleased hum and makes grabby hands toward his bowl, orange eyes gleaming.

“Do you need a fork?” Martin asks curiously.

Gerry grins at him mischievously, and that is all the warning that Martin gets before his mouth turns into flames, and he pours the whole meal down his throat in one flaming gulp. Martin stands there, stunned, as Gerry happily licks a bit of sauce off of his upper lip and hands the bowl back.

“You were right,” he says cheerfully. “That was good.”

“What the _fuck,”_ Martin whispers, horrified.

“Thanks, Martin,” Gerry responds, and then disappears back into the fire. If Martin didn’t know any better, he’d say that the flames are a little bit more enthusiastic than before.

He stands there for another couple of seconds, still processing what he’d just seen, before slowly shaking his head and picking up the other two bowls. He threads his way over to Jon, who looks up as he approaches, expression carefully vacant of the earlier vulnerability.

“Nothing fancy,” Martin says, handing Jon the bowl. “But a far sight better than bread and cheese, I imagine.”

Jon hums quietly in acknowledgement, accepting the pasta and turning back to the book he’d been reading. Martin carefully folds his knees as he sits next to Jon, settling on the dusty carpet and digging in.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Jon resting his bowl of pasta on his knee as he flips through the books, Martin basking in the success of his simple creation. He keeps one eye on Jon the whole time, waiting for the moment when he finally takes a bite. That’s the best part about cooking for others: the moment when they take a mouthful, and their eyes light up with pleasure. Martin lives for that moment.

Time passes, though. Martin finishes up his meal, washes his bowls, then the pans. Cleans the table until it sparkles, before folding it up and tucking it next to the stairs. Jon continues to read, pasta now cold on his knee. Despite the annoyance Martin feels at the fact that Jon hasn’t touched the food…

Martin hasn’t been able to observe Jon in his natural element before, completely relaxed, hair in a loose ponytail over his shoulder. His clever fingers pinch the next page, luminous eyes darting over the words with lightning, practiced speed. There’s only a faint tension about his mouth, and the lack of it softens his whole face, the sharp lines that bleed from his every motion. Sitting here, firelight casting deep shadows in the corners of the room, Jon just looks...melancholy. Sadness curves over his shoulders like a shadow, threads through and around his joints.

There’s no fight in Martin when he finally approaches Jon. The man looks too diminished, too sad to be angry at.

“Here, let me take this,” he says, going to take the bowl from Jon.

Jon jumps so hard that the book falls, and the bowl would’ve gone the same way if Martin hadn’t scrambled to catch it. The sadness vanishes behind the man’s walls again, tucked into the spaces between his suspicion and prickly bravado.

Then he glances down at the bowl that Martin is still holding, and lets out a groan. “No, I—I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Martin says, giving him a tight smile.

“No,” Jon shakes his head, genuine chagrin on his face. “Here, I can—just give it here, I still want it. I just lost track of time.”

Martin hesitates. “It’s cold.”

Jon doesn’t respond to that, just tugs the bowl back and clasps it firmly between his hands. Martin watches, fascinated, as Jon gives the now congealed meal a look full of harsh, cold intent—

A bright green eye blossoms on Jon’s cheek. As Martin watches, agape, more eyes appear, on Jon’s wrists, on his neck, spattered across his visible skin like freckles under the sun. A soft susurrus fills the air, an oddly familiar tone that touches some part of Martin’s brain, and his skin goes cold and clammy—

He’s so stunned by the display that he almost misses the way the pasta starts to steam, the sauce bubbling as it heats. After a few seconds, Jon lets out a quiet sigh and shakes his head, and the susurrus and the eyes fade, leaving nothing behind.

Those—those eyes. The noise. They—they were the same as those eye monsters that had been chasing Martin. That Jon had _rescued him from._ He opens his mouth to press, to ask why the _hell_ Jon has the same traits as those monsters that tried to kill him—

But then Jon takes a bite of the pasta, and his eyes go wide. Martin’s mouth slowly falls shut as Jon takes another mouthful, and his expression goes faint and pained with that same, terrible confusion. He swallows and puts the fork into the bowl, then swallows again.

“This is—this is good.”

“I’m glad,” Martin responds cautiously, uncertain of this strange, fragile tension.

“I—” Jon breaks off, then reaches up and scrunches his hand in the fabric of his shirt. Repeats, like it’s the only thing he knows _how_ to say, “It’s...it’s good.”

And just like that, Martin understands. Of course. _Of course._ He’d completely and utterly forgotten about Jon’s heart.

Then Jon straightens, untangles his hand from his shirt. Shakes the uncertainty from his face, and hands the half-finished bowl back to Martin. “Thank you, but I’ve eaten as much as I can.”

“Right,” Martin responds, taking the bowl back, carefully turning it, running his fingers along the grain of the wood. Considers the thought of eating something like this and not understanding the intent behind it, the connection it means to catalyze or strengthen.

“This…” Jon gets to his feet and gestures toward the stacks of books, the organized files, that Martin had gotten to today. “It was mostly satisfactory.”

“Thanks?”

Jon nods brusquely. “Good night, Martin.”

Martin watches as he marches upstairs, his shoulders tilted into that hard, hunted set again. For the first time, he feels a sympathetic stab of pity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: im an idiot. forgot to include a link to some character designs that beescree did on tumblr!! check them out they're so cool!!  
> [link](https://beescree.tumblr.com/post/619397310263279616/tmahowls-moving-castle-au-lineup-designs-mostly)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra special thank you to eevee and pit for betaing the latter half of this chapter for me!! you're the best!!

Martin stands in front of the tea kettle, and finally feels some small knot of tension in his stomach release.

He would love to say that he doesn’t need to be able to make tea to relax, but...well, he kind of does. It’s long since become one of the things that he does in response to stress, besides cooking. Worried about researching a particular tricky statement? Make tea. Planning to visit his mother later that day? Make tea.

Get cursed and end up as the employee of a kind-of fire demon and a rude wizard? _Make frankly ridiculous amounts of tea._ He’s not ashamed to admit that he’s lost count of the amount of tea he’s made in the past few days.

To be fair, he’s not even making this tea for himself. He’s making it for Sasha and Jon, currently knee-deep in clients. They seem to take very few breaks throughout the day, which means they could probably use a cup.

The kettle lets out a scream as the water finally boils, and Martin hurries to turn it off. He’s still not entirely sure how the magic in the kettle itself works, but it’s simple enough to use. Put in tea and water, turn it on. Pour out the perfectly made tea when the little contraption shrieks its heart out.

Martin lets out a quiet sigh, sets the mugs on a platter, and heads downstairs. The door is flung wide open to allow Sasha and Jon ease of access. The fresh breeze that blows through, carrying the gentle scent of rain and the sea, is a pleasant benefit.

“Hello,” Martin calls, and lifts his platter when Sasha and Jon turn to face him. “Brought tea.”

“Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?” Sasha asks, reaching toward the mug, her hands tilted as though in supplication.

Martin grins as he hands Jon his cup, who lets out a quiet, distracted grunt of thanks. “It could stand to be repeated.”

Sasha lets out a contented hum, her nose buried in the steam rising off of the liquid.

“Working on anything interesting?” Martin asks, tilting his head to get a better look at the document she’s taking notes on.

“Not really,” Sasha shakes her head, finally setting the mug of tea aside, a careful distance away from her papers. “This person insists that he had a run in with a leprechaun, but I think that he may have just been mugged.”

“Oh.” Martin feels slightly taken aback. It’s not that he was expecting for every statement to be some sort of grand, magical encounter, but that seems rather anticlimactic, especially after his own experience with the supernatural. “Does that happen often?”

“Mistaking a mugging for a magical encounter? You’d be surprised.”

“No,” Martin shakes his head. “Not that. I mean...how often do you get statements that are untrue?”

“More often than we’d like,” Jon speaks up for the first time, his voice bone-dry as he digs his fingers into the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately, people tend to interpret their experiences with an overactive imagination. We spend most of our time trying to discern a true encounter from a fanciful story.”

Sasha winces at the candor of that description, but it must be true enough, because she doesn’t argue.

Still, Martin can’t help the flicker of annoyance at Jon’s lack of tact. If Jon taking statements is anything like the Institute taking statements... “Sometimes people don’t want to acknowledge that they’ve had something terrible happen to them,” he points out sharply. “It’s easier to pretend that it was something out of their control. And maybe it creates more work for you, but it makes them feel better.”

There is a moment of stunned silence. Martin shifts under the combined weight of their stairs, squeezing the empty platter nervously. _Maybe I shouldn’t have said that._

“That’s a good point,” Sasha says finally. Then, to Martin’s horror, she turns to Jon and shoves an elbow pointedly into his ribs. “Wasn’t that a good point, Jon?

Jon is still watching Martin with those intent, luminous eyes, though. There’s a new note of consideration in his gaze, as though Martin is a statement that he hasn’t yet heard, novel and interesting.

“Yes,” he says at length, finally turning away. Martin lets out the breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I suppose it was. I apologize, I didn’t mean to sound dismissive.”

Martin shakes his head, feeling strangely off-balance. “R-Right, well. I’ll be upstairs, then. Just give me a call if you need anything.”

“Thanks again for the tea!” Sasha responds.

Jon, predictably, gives a grunt and a dismissive wave. Martin nods in response, relieved, and darts back up the stairs, where he isn’t the subject of such intense consideration by strange, fantastical men.

Almost an hour later, Martin sits on the floor in front of the hearth, studying the cover of the book he’s holding. He’d unearthed it from one of the rapidly diminishing piles on the edges of the room. More and more of the books that he’s finding have to be put in the ‘unsalvageable’ pile, indicating that they’ve been there the longest, but this one seems to be in relatively good condition.

 _Curses and the Art of Cursebreaking._ There’s no author, no description on the back of what the book supposedly contains. He supposes that it’s pretty self-explanatory, though. Curses and how to break them. Simple enough.

Except—except he’d opened to the first few paragraphs, and there had been so much technical jargon that he hadn’t understood. _Source, foci,_ references to magical researchers that he’d never heard of before, theories that made his head spin. He feels like he just picked up a textbook for a class that he skipped all the prerequisites for.

Martin bites his lip and glances toward the hearth, where Gerry’s fire is burning, low and steady. That first day, he’d known that he had no idea how to identify curses, much less break them. He is only just beginning to comprehend the magnitude of the task he’s picked up, and how ill-prepared he is to solve it.

Jon may be prickly and unpleasant to be around, but his skill in magic is clear. He doesn’t have to glance at the recipe book as he makes tinctures and potions, throwing in ingredients at random, waving his hand in nonsensical directions. Sasha will turn to him and query about some sort of magical phenomenon, and Jon will know the answer off the top of the head, seemingly without having to think about it. It’s remarkable, and intimidating, and…

Martin does not have this sort of experience. Martin almost got killed by hundreds of amorphous entities made of eyes and black ink, and was then cursed not four hours later. He does not understand what is obviously considered to be common knowledge in the magical world. It is glaringly obvious how out of his own depth he is—so how is he supposed to fulfill his half of the bargain when Jon can’t even break the curse on _himself?_

Martin sighs harshly and sets the book aside, scrubbing his hands over his face. Agreeing to this was a mistake. He should have just...gone to Lukas. Come clean when he still had the chance.

There’s the soft click of footsteps from behind, and then Sasha’s voice asks, “Problem?”

Martin lets his hands drop to his lap and smiles up at her self-deprecatingly. “No, just...just taking a break. How’s it going out there?”

Sasha shakes her head, hefting the stack of books and files in her hands demonstratively. “Not good _at all._ Jon accused a client of making her story up, and she started screaming at him. Granted, seems like she _did_ make it up, but she wasn’t too keen on that being pointed out.”

Martin groans. “Jon’s in a bad mood, then?”

Sasha nods, smiling sympathetically. “You might want to steer clear until he works it out of his system.”

Martin nods, rising to his feet and stuffing the curse book into one of the many piles. He doesn’t want to give Jon the excuse to snap at him for slacking off.

“Martin!” Jon shouts, thundering up the stairs. Beside him, Sasha lets out a quiet, sympathetic noise.

Martin sighs and turns to face his boss. _He makes so much noise for someone so little._ “Yes, Jon?”

He’d expected a furious stormcloud of eyebrows, a sour moue. Instead, he is greeted with an intensely focused stare, his dark eyes focused like the sun glaring through a bit of curved glass. There is a wild, frenetic energy bleeding from his every movement, turning him all sharp corners.

Far more striking are the neon green eyes blinking in and out of existence across his skin, and the sudden, heavy weight in the air.

“Jon?” Gerry asks, expression alarmed, pulling himself out of the fire.

“I’m needed elsewhere. I’m afraid we’ll have to close early,” Jon tells the room at large. He strides to Martin and shoves the pile of files he’s holding at him, who instinctively takes a step back and teeters unsteadily under the sudden weight. “Sasha, you’ll be compensated for the missing hours, of course. Gerry, Martin, I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up for me.”

“What the hell is going on?” Sasha demands. “You can’t just expect us to—”

“It’s a personal matter. I would prefer not to discuss it.”

Jon whirls away from them, still that bundle of barely contained magical power. Gerry, who has been mostly silent and still until now, steps forward and catches one of Jon’s wrists, stopping him in place. He doesn’t say anything, though, just frowns, staring deeply into Jon’s eyes. Jon doesn’t hide, just lifts his chin and glares back, a mix of impatience and grudging acceptance on his face.

Eventually, Gerry nods and pulls away. “We’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone, Jon.”

Jon nods, some of the tension smoothing from his brow. “Thank you.”

Sasha looks incredulously between the two of them, and Martin can’t help but feel the same way. What the hell was _that_ all about?

More than that, he realizes—how had Gerry been able to touch Jon? Martin knows that Gerry runs as hot as his fire, so how…?

“Sasha, please,” Gerry tells her, firmly but not unkindly, while Jon turns and bolts up the stairs. “This really isn’t your business.”

Sasha’s face twists, like the very idea of something not being her business is blasphemous. She opens her mouth, before catching the look on Gerry’s face and snapping it shut again with a shake of her head. “No, you’re right. Sorry. I’ll see you both tomorrow, I assume?”

“No worries,” Gerry says easily. “And yes, we’ll let you know otherwise.”

“Bye Sasha,” Martin says.

She shoots him a small, quick smile in response. “Bye, Martin.”

And then Gerry and Martin are alone.

Martin dithers on the carpet for a moment, uncertain as to what he’s supposed to be doing. The atmosphere still feels too charged, too tense to act as though things are normal, and Gerry is leaning against the hearth, lost in thought.

“So—” Martin begins when the silence gets to be too much, and is almost immediately interrupted by Jon flying down the stairs.

He changed his clothes, and Martin is momentarily struck speechless by it. There are a pair of what appear to be aviator goggles hanging around his neck, and he’s wearing an enormous brown jacket. His hair is pulled into a low, severe bun at the nape of his neck, and he’s wearing tiny, slim black flats. He looks remarkably like one of the dancers from the ballet Martin had gone to a few years ago, graceful and light, unconcerned by such trivial things as gravity.

“I should be back by tomorrow,” Jon shoots as he passes by Gerry, doing up the clasps on the jacket. “If I’m not, try not to worry.”

“You’ll be careful, won’t you, Jon?” Gerry responds, but there’s an unusual emphasis to his words, a forced steadiness in his brow.

Jon stops dead in his tracks, his fingers frozen over a clasp. He looks at Gerry, and his face softens. "I will."

Then he disappears down the stairs. The door opens and slams shut with a rattle, and Gerry and Martin are alone.

Gerry sighs, pushing away from the hearth with a low, heavy sigh. He doesn’t look worried precisely, but his eyes are more yellow than orange, and the shadows in the corners of the room look just the slightest bit darker than normal. 

“So,” Martin says nervously. He hasn’t been left alone with Gerry since that first day, as Gerry prefers to stay in the fire as much as possible. He’s not entirely sure how to talk to the strange man.

“So,” Gerry echoes absently.

“...would you like something to eat?”

Gerry’s head jerks toward Martin, and his eyebrows furrow incredulously. “What?”

“It’s just...” Martin trails off, twisting his fingers together. “I was planning on making curry tonight, but I’ll probably have a lot of extra, so if you don’t…?”

“Oh!” Gerry blinks. “I mean, sure. You’ll be wanting to use the fire again?”

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

Gerry shrugs and clambers into the hearth, disappearing up to his waist into the flames. "Be my guest."

Martin sighs in relief, before going to retrieve the table he's been using to make meals. He chops onions and carrots and adds them into the cast iron skillet, letting them soften as he minces garlic and smashes peeled ginger into a paste. Once he's satisfied, he tosses the two aforementioned ingredients in with some tomatoes and a generous dose of pungent spices. Finally, he adds some vegetable broth and lentils, covers it, and drags the heavy iron to the steadily smoldering coals. A pot of rice and water is placed next to it to simmer.

It's only after Martin let's out a satisfied sigh and steps away that Gerry asks, "Where did you learn to cook like that?"

"O-oh!" Martin almost jumps at the sound of the man's voice. Gerry had been so quiet the whole time he'd honestly forgotten the man was there. "Well—my, um. My mum was sick a lot when I was younger, so I just kind of had to...to learn."

Gerry hums thoughtfully, the sound barely audible above the crackle of the fire. "Sounds rough."

"Not really," Martin says lightly, carefully tucking away the unpleasant emotions that thinking about his mum elicits. "Cooking is something I've come to enjoy. It calms me down."

"I see."

"And what about you?"

"Me?" Gerry shakes his head, bemused. "I think it should be pretty obvious that I don't cook."

Martin huffed. "I meant stuff that you enjoy. I think it'd be pretty boring to just sit in a fire all day and burn, no offense."

That seems to stump Gerry. He flops over the side of the hearth, making sure not to disturb the curry still simmering on the edges of the flames, watching Martin as he cleans up his work area.

"...wasn't always a fire, you know. Stuck in this hearth."

"What?" Martin almost drops the rag he's holding. "You mean—"

"Part of the curse," Gerry says, shrugging. He can't quite hide the dance of blue in his irises though, or the brief, pained twist of his mouth. "I can't leave the fire for more than an hour or so. Leaving the castle would be suicide."

"I—" Martin stops, winces, his mouth suddenly dry and barren. He tries to imagine being forced into the hearth of the castle, unable to leave the vicinity of this place, and shudders. "...I'm so sorry, that sounds awful."

They're both quiet for a moment, the light mood from earlier gone sour. Martin tries very hard not to think about the fact that _he_ is the one responsible for breaking this curse, and how very out of his depth he is.

It's hard, though. He feels half-nauseous at the weight of it.

"I liked flying, though."

Martin jerks up, startled by the sudden levity in Gerry's voice. "O-oh?" Then the words register. "Wait, you could _fly?"_

"Sure," Gerry says, smiling indulgently. "Lots of wizards can."

"Oh." Martin turns this new piece of information over and over in his mind, trying to figure out how he feels about it. Thinks about Jon's arms around his waist, the buoyant rising and falling sensation as they'd walked effortlessly through the air. "That sounds...really nice, actually."

"It is," Gerry says, without hesitation or uncertainty. "It really, really is."

They fall silent again, and Martin busies himself with the curry. He swirls the mixture around, tastes it thoughtfully, before tossing in a bit more salt and some cayenne. He leaves it uncovered this time, and the smell rises from the skillet and fills the whole room, clinging to the inside of Martin’s watering mouth. Even Gerry seems entranced by it, and Martin has to swat at his hand when the man goes to stick a finger in the mixture.

Finally, Martin spoons the curry and rice into a couple of bowls. Gerry accepts his portion eagerly, and immediately pours it down his throat in the same unnerving manner that he had a few days ago. Martin tries very hard not to shudder at it, and instead accepts the empty bowl and the quiet murmur of thanks in good humor.

Ten minutes later, he’s sitting on the floor, his bowl of curry resting on one knee, studying the neatly ordered stacks of books around him. He’s learned to recognize the faint aura of magic that permeates through the whole of the castle, sinking into its marrow. It’s heady and powerful and he didn’t notice it when he first got here, and that is all the proof he needs that he can learn.

 _I liked flying,_ Gerry’s wistful voice echoes in his head.

Martin takes a deep breath. He may not know anything about curses or magic, but he has all the resources he needs right here. There _has_ to be an introduction to magic or something amongst all of these books.

* * *

Jon’s breath is harsh, rasping and raw in his chest as he spirals toward the ground, his smooth, shimmering wings barely able to slow his descent. He knows that he should—should try to level out, to think more _clearly,_ but he just—

_He’s gone._

He feels eyes blinking in and out of existence on his skin, trying to see, trying to understand where he could have gone, why he would have suddenly vanished without warning. The presence of the Eye, harsh and consuming is only making it worse, and he can’t _think._

 _You’ll crash if you don’t do something!_ A voice that sounds like Gerry’s snarls.

 _Gerry._ Right.

Jon takes a deep breath, then another, then opens his eyes, the _real_ ones. _Shit. The ground is closer than he’d thought._

He’ll need to act fast if he doesn’t want to end up as a splatter in the mud. He fumbles with his jacket for a moment, then undoes the clasps and lets it fly open. The fabric catches the wind and billows out, and the magic sewn into it slows him just enough that he won’t tatter his wings if he tries to stop himself.

The ground rises up beneath him. He grits his teeth, knowing that even with his descent having been slowed, this is going to be unpleasant. 

He snaps his wings out, and his vision goes dark for a moment as his shoulders wrench back in their sockets. He fights to stay aloft, fighting against the strain of the wind pressure.

_Come on. Again!_

He manages another sweep of his wings, sweat immediately carried away by the raging wind around him. And then—

Jon slams into the ground with all the grace and subtlety of a comet. He only just barely manages to fold his wings against his back before he’s rolling across the dirt, stones and rocks scraping across his face, his skin, the pungent flavor of dirt and copper flooding his mouth when he instinctively gasps for air. He rolls over and over again, far too many times to count, before mercifully slowing to a halt.

Jon lies on the ground for a moment, winded, feeling like he’s just been run over with a horse. He’s still too numb, too full of adrenaline to tell whether or not something is broken, though he’d be very surprised if he was lucky enough to escape with all his bones intact.

 _“Shit,”_ he coughs, and rolls onto his side, groaning when his stomach gives a nauseous protest. _Gerry is going to kill me._

_He’s gone._

Jon freezes in the middle of pushing himself upright, the thought momentarily stealing his breath away again. Then shakes his head and forces himself the rest of the way up. _Worry about it later._ He can feel Gerry’s disquiet thrumming from the other end of their bond. Understandable, considering he probably felt Jon’s mental turmoil, and then his pain when he almost crashed straight into the ground.

Jon takes a deep breath, forcing his steps not to stutter. Luckily he didn’t fall too far from the castle—he’s not sure he could have walked any great length, not with the way his whole body is protesting at every movement.

He—he thinks that he wants Gerry’s presence, his burning comfort. He thinks that will help, but it’s always hard to be sure.

Jon pushes open the front door with his shoulder, landing in a tangle of bruised and battered limbs against the stairs. He lets out a groan as his ribs pulse with an especially sharp stab of pain. _Broken?_ He doesn’t know. Now that the adrenaline is fading, the world is a swirling confusion that clogs his throat, and the Eye presses ever closer in his mind—

“Shit,” Gerry mutters from somewhere above his head. Jon chokes on a gasp and tries to scrabble upright, but his wing catches on the still open door, and his vision goes white for a moment. “Jon, Jon—stop that. You’ll hurt yourself even _more.”_

“He’s gone!” Jon rasps, and if he were paying attention, he knows that he would be able to hear the susurrus of tape recorders sputtering over his voice, but he just _doesn’t care_. His body isn’t responding to him like it should, and he can’t stop shaking, why can’t he stop _shaking?_ “He’s gone, Gerry, I don’t know how that could have—”

“Hush,” and there’s a gentle hand on his brow and his shoulder, stilling him, steadying him, guiding him upright. “Let’s get you cleaned up. What the hell did you do to yourself?”

“It wasn’t the warships. I fell,” Jon grunts as Gerry wraps an arm around Jon’s waist and hoists him upright, being careful not to crumple his wings any further. “Didn’t—jus’ got distracted, I—”

Gerry stumbles, and that’s all the warning Jon gets before the Eye suddenly slams into his mind, tearing at his weakened defenses. He sinks to the floor and Gerry is utterly powerless to hold them upright, both shuddering under the assault, as powerful and unstoppable as the tide.

“You have to _fight it,_ Jon,” Gerry hisses. “Jon—”

“Shut _up.”_ his voice is almost unrecognizable, but he can’t bring himself to moderate his tone, not with the Eye everywhere at once. A warm hand finds his and squeezes, and Jon hones in on that, lets it ground him amidst the raging storm.

There’s a beat. Jon gasps and drags at his wings with his magic, yanking them inside his body. He almost slips a few times, the Eye’s power a siren song, but he’s had years and _years_ of experience beating it back. Eventually, mercifully, his wings melt into his back, smoothing into his skin like they were never there.

“That’s it,” Gerry murmurs into his ear, and Jon collapses against him, half-dizzy at the sudden absence of pressure from the Eye. Gerry’s hand runs through his hair, stroking the sweaty strands from his face, and he thinks, _I was right, I did want his comfort._

There’s a moment of silence as Jon’s breathing evens out and his body goes almost boneless at the gentle touch in his hair—

(There’s a word for the hollow ache it elicits, one that twists out of his grasp whenever he reaches for it.)

He doesn’t get long, though; Gerry lets out a quiet grunt and curls his arm around Jon’s waist again, levering them both to their feet and limping them over to the hearth and the fire.

“Alright,” Gerry says after Jon settles against the stones, his voice sharp. “Tell me what happened.”

Jon’s tiredness immediately fades, replaced by a crush of confusion and something he can’t quite grasp. He’d—he’d forgotten for a moment as he and the Eye had fought for control, but— “He’s gone, Gerry. I—I just _found_ him, too. I warded his house, it just doesn’t make any sense. I don’t understand how he could have just...just up and vanished _._ But—I, I checked on the wards today and he was, he’s just, _gone,_ which doesn’t make any _sense_ — _”_

“Hey!” Gerry interrupts, and that’s when Jon realizes that he’s been slowly getting louder and louder, talking himself into circles. He clamps his mouth shut, breathing hard through his nose, and tangles his hands in his hair, trying to will himself to _stop_. “Jon, I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. You’ll be able to find him again, I’m sure of it.”

“I just _did_ though! I just did, and, and…”

Gerry sighs and tugs Jon closer, tilting Jon’s head against his shoulder. They sit like that for a moment, Jon trembling, Gerry steadfast and calm. The fire sinks into Jon’s back, and Gerry’s natural body heat warms the rest of him, dispersing the chill. He can’t help but melt a little further into the embrace.

From the other end of his bond, there’s an emotion that he is no longer able to comprehend, and he tightens his fingers in Gerry’s jacket. The left side of his chest stirs feebly, even as the trembling in his limbs fades.

“You’ll find him again, I promise,” Gerry murmurs. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“...sorry for worrying you.”

“You’re forgiven,” the hearthkeeper says, and his voice lightens slightly in an attempt at levity. “Just try not to do it too often, yeah?”

Jon snorts and nods.

They’re quiet for a moment, Jon rubbing his thumb against his palm as his thoughts finally settle, as his aches and pains which were dulled by the adrenaline start to make themselves known. Gerry is warm and comfortable, though, his temperature loosening the tension in Jon’s muscles, helping them relax. He’s fallen asleep like this before, and he’s especially in danger of it now, exhausted and injured as he is.

But there’s been something bothering him. He shakes himself and pulls away, turns so he’s looking at Gerry. “I have to ask.”

Gerry turns so that he’s facing Jon and raises an expectant eyebrow.

“Martin, he—” Jon bites his lip, tries to figure out how to word this without sounding accusatory. “You can’t...he, he’s been marked by the Eye. _Why_ did you hire him? What’s going on here? I don’t understand.”

Gerry lets out a low, understanding hum, and his face twists with regret. He reaches out, and Jon catches his hand, squeezes their fingers together. "I'm sorry. I know I should have said something earlier. But...you know better than anyone that just because someone is marked by the Eye doesn’t mean they’re an agent _of_ the Eye.” Jon winces at that, but Gerry doesn’t let him pull away.

“He may not look like much, but that doesn’t make him _not_ dangerous, especially if he’s been marked by the Eye.” he points out.

“Jon.” Gerry’s burning orange and gold gaze catches him, pinning him in place. “Do you trust me?”

Jon nods without hesitation. There are many mistakes that he’s made over the course of his life. His current situation is a monument to his bad decisions, which have compounded and built on top of each other. But he has never doubted his trust in Gerry.

“Then _trust_ me,” Gerry tells him earnestly, smoothing his thumb over Jon’s battered knuckles. “There are things that I can’t talk about, but Martin isn’t dangerous. You should try talking to him. You know. Be _nice_.”

Jon presses his lips together mulishly at the chiding, but nods. It’s well deserved. He _knows_ he’s been unfairly rude.

“Anyway,” Gerry releases his grip on Jon’s hand. “Upstairs with you. You’re a mess, no offense.”

“None taken,” Jon snorts, before carefully pushing himself onto the floor. His legs wobble for a moment before they straighten out, aching distantly in protest. He glances over toward the pile of blankets lying on the ground, at the plain, almost indistinct face that peeks over the edges of the fabric, but it doesn’t look like Martin woke up during the commotion. Small mercies.

Then he pauses. Tilts his head in confusion.

“Wait,” he turns to look at Gerry, feeling a cold pit open in his stomach. “Has he been sleeping on the floor this _whole time?”_

Gerry peers over the hearth to look at Martin, his eyebrows traveling up toward his hairline. “Ah.”

Jon groans and scrubs his hands over his face. _Shit._ He can’t believe that he forgot that people need to sleep in _beds._ He didn’t even think about it, as Gerry has been living in the hearth for the past five years and hasn't needed one.

This is...a problem that he’ll address in the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

Martin stands on the doorstep of the castle, breathing out a low sigh as he watches the sun’s rays peek over the mountains. His blanket hangs loose over his shoulders, the edge just barely brushing the wooden stairs. The air tastes cold and sweet on his tongue, and the clouds that hem the mountain tops are rich and puffy, like whipped cream. But while he’s physically here, taking it all in, his mind is a million miles away.

He can’t get the conversation he had with Gerry out of his head.

 _I like flying._ Gerry had said it in the same tone of voice that Martin usually said, _I cook for fun._ Honest in that it was something that he enjoyed, something that was a hobby rather than a career path. Dishonest in the fact that ‘like’ isn’t the sort of word that can encompass the task. It is sanctuary, a respite from a world which is oftentimes too cruel to contemplate.

Gerry has lost that.

And Jon. _Jon._ Martin has only caught glimpses of the unease that a frozen heart causes, but he has a feeling that it goes much, much deeper. Martin has the dawning suspicion that Jon feels an absence just as keenly as anyone else would feel emotion, which is, in a word, horrifying.

Two men, inexorably bound up in this terrible curse. And Martin…

Yesterday, Jon had told Sasha that she needed to leave, had told Gerry _and_ Martin not to wait up for him. That was important. That _is_ important. Martin hadn’t considered it before, but living in the castle means that he’s going to be inevitably bound up in their lives, their secrets. He is going to know Gerry and Jon the way he hasn’t known another human being in a long, long time.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

In some ways, Martin thinks that his own curse is quite fitting. Most of his life he’s felt uprooted, drifting from one place to another without leaving evidence of his passing behind. The only real connection that he has is to his mother, which is hardly a connection at all. The idea of once more falling into step with another human being, of becoming someone who knows and _is_ known, is...

A little terrifying, if he’s being honest.

The castle creaks, and then there’s a quiet thud from upstairs. Martin rests one hand lightly on the railing, waiting patiently.

“Morning,” Gerry mutters from behind him.

Martin turns around, sees Gerry leaning against the doorframe, blinking sleepily. His hair is in a state of disarray, rolling over and down his shoulders, a cowlick flicking up from his forehead.

“I didn’t realize that fires got bedhead,” Martin says, raising an eyebrow.

Gerry stares at him for a moment, expression pleasantly befuddled, before reaching up and patting his hair. He lets out a noise of surprise, frowns, and begins flattening it, smoothing out the tangles with long, careful fingers. Martin turns back around, sinking back into the silence.

“Jon came home late last night,” Gerry says, apropo of nothing.

Martin immediately faces him again, raising an eyebrow. “He did?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear us,” Gerry says, studying Martin’s face carefully. “He was pretty loud.”

“Is he...is he okay?”

“He’s fine.” Gerry doesn’t sound like he quite believes that, though. He lets out a sigh, twiddling one long strand of hair. “Well...kind of. He got messed up pretty bad.”

“He probably shouldn’t be working today, then,” Martin chews on his lip. “We’ll have to let Sasha know. No need to wake him, I think.”

Gerry doesn’t respond for a moment, then another. Martin lifts his gaze to find Gerry looking right back at him. His orange gaze isn’t intense or searching like it’s been in the past, just thoughtful, watchful.

“What is it?” he asks, trying to get a read on this unfathomable man.

Gerry shakes his head. “Nothing. You’re right.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, watching as the sun begins to climb higher and higher in the sky. Martin wonders, if there was less mist, if he’d be able to see his hometown from here, huddled at the base of the mountain range.

He takes a deep breath, shakes his head. Wistful, maudlin thoughts.

“Let’s go to Rollins,” Martin says, turning his back on the mountains, on the thought of his old home. “Best not to keep Sasha waiting.”

Gerry hums in agreement, and steps back to let Martin inside.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Martin is standing outside the castle, beating at the rugs that used to lie in front of the hearth. He’d finally finished organizing the last pile of books, exposing the thick, plush carpets that covered the floor. They’d been unpleasantly dusty, though, causing both Martin _and_ Gerry to wrinkle their noses—which is saying something, as Gerry is usually blind to any sort of mess. Hence why he’s outside, attacking the rugs with a beater.

For two people who keep the downstairs do messy and disorganized, Jon and Gerry have a surprising amount of cleaning supplies. He has several meters of clotheslines, a dust beater, a mop, a broom, cleaning fluid, and other useful things.

His collection doesn’t just extend to cleaning, though; he has other, seemingly out of character objects. Nice chopping boards and cast iron skillets, knives that gleam like they’ve been sharpened yesterday. A pile of knitting needles and several skeins of luxurious, dyed woolen yarn, which Martin had detangled and set aside.

Jon—and maybe Gerry?—seem to be a bit like magpies in the way they accumulate objects, which is kind of...cute, actually.

Martin gives one of the rugs an especially enthusiastic _whack,_ and has to take a step back when a dust poofs into the air. Thankfully he’s wearing a dust mask, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting it in his mouth and nose.

He freezes and turns around very slowly when he hears someone start coughing violently from behind.

Sure enough, Jon had apparently been standing very close by when Martin had hit the rug, and is now flushed and coughing, waving frantically at the air in front of him. Worse than that are the raw scrapes and cuts on his face and bare forearms, and the ginger way he’s holding his ribs.

“Oh _no,_ Jon, I’m so sorry—”

“M-my fault,” Jon wheezes, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have—it was my fault. _Ugh.”_

Martin steps in closer, reflexively raising his hands. “Are you sure? Gerry said that you got hurt last night, I—”

“Martin,” Jon says firmly but not unkindly, mostly steady now, though there’s a faint rasp on the edges of his words. Martin shuts up, stunned by the experimental way the corners of Jon’s lips turn up at the ends. “I’m fine.”

“O-Oh,” Martin blinks. Turns back to the rug to hide the confusion at the fact that Jon is _smiling at him_. (Also to shake away the reminder that Jon is actually quite handsome). “Well. Good.”

They stand in silence for a moment, Martin fiddling with the dust beater, Jon shifting awkwardly back and forth. Martin just doesn’t know what to _say_ . Jon doesn’t really seem like the type of person to enjoy small talk—but then again, he doesn’t really seem to be the type of person who enjoys being around Martin at _all._ Martin has no idea what Jon’s doing here, or why he suddenly seems to be so hesitant when he’s had no qualms about speaking his mind before.

“I, uh,” Jon says finally, startling Martin out of his thoughts. “Hm. Sasha and I have the day off, and I don’t see why you also shouldn’t.”

Martin turns and furrows his brows at Jon, his incredulity only growing when Jon shifts nervously under Martin’s questioning gaze.

“Have a day off of, that is,” Jon adds, as though that was the point which had been misunderstood.

“Right,” Martin says when he finally finds his voice. “Thanks.”

Jon nods perfunctorily, turns on his heel, and strides back into the castle, chin raised. The whole effect is diminished by the fact that Jon is limping slightly, one arm still wrapped around his injured ribs.

Bemused, Martin turns back to the rugs, staring uncomprehendingly at the strange, interlocking patterns. Then he lets out a low, quiet laugh, and scrubs a hand through his hair. What on _earth_ just happened? Martin had snapped at Jon yesterday, which he’d thought would only further cool relations between them. Instead, Jon seems to have become awkward, almost shy.

Just when he thinks that he’s gotten a handle on the man, he does something completely unexpected.

Twenty minutes later, Martin is bundling the clean rugs up the stairs. Gerry is sitting on the edge of the hearth, rolling a shiny silver paperweight between his hands, which Martin had unearthed a couple of days ago. His eyes widen when Martin starts struggling up the stairs, and he sets the trinket aside and hurries to help lay out the rugs.

“Thanks,” Martin mutters, breathing hard.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Where did Jon go?”

“Upstairs,” Gerry gestures vaguely in the direction of the ceiling. “I told him that he should be resting, but I doubt he’s going to do that. Probably going to go back to research, he’s always been a terrible patient.”

Martin frowns. “Isn’t he injured?”

Gerry hums a low agreement. Martin’s frown deepens.

Ten minutes later, Martin is carefully walking up the stairs, holding two mugs of tea. The first one Earl Grey with milk and sugar. The second is a chamomile blend, the kind that Martin always makes for himself when he’s having trouble sleeping.

“Jon?” Martin calls, peering through the first door. It looks to be some sort of office—or maybe a bedroom? He can’t tell with all the clutter—but it _is_ empty of Jon, so he keeps walking. The second door is the upstairs bathroom, which is very small, with a little sink and a shower stall lined with a variety of bottles.

At the third room that Martin looks into, he has to stop and stare, stunned.

It’s far neater than the rest of the castle has been. Handsome, dark bookshelves line the wall to Martin’s left, almost full to bursting. Textbooks, fiction books, history books, books bound with cheap string, books bound in supple, expensive leather. On the wall to the right are shelves and shelves of jars and more books, ever more books. The jars appear to be full of tincture ingredients; some are full of powder, some full of organic material floating in strange liquid.

On the far wall in front of a window is a long desk. A portable burner sits in the middle of it, and a pot sits on top of the burner, burbling sulkily, letting off ribbons of steam. Jars of ingredients are clustered at one end of the desk, several books at the other.

Jon sits in a chair in front of the desk, his head pillowed on his arms. The sun glints off of the grey strands in his hair, making them shine like polished silver. There is something...ephemeral about him, like he’s one wrong breath from dissolving into nothing.

Martin shakes himself and taps the open door with his elbow. “Jon?”

Jon startles upright, then curls in on himself and groans. When he finally turns around, he looks mostly normal, except for a line of tension on his brow. “Martin.”

“I brought you some tea,” he says absently, wandering further into the room, studying the titles on the books. They’re mostly about magic, unsurprisingly. “Chamomile.”

Jon lets out a quiet, surprised noise. “Oh, uh. Thank you.”

Martin shoots him a searching look. Observing gives him no clues, though, just gives him an eyeful of how deep the bags under Jon’s eyes are. He takes a deep breath, and makes the decision to push his luck. “You really should be getting some rest. You’re injured, remember?”

Jon looks at the tea when Martin holds it out, expression unreadable, and for a moment he wonders if he really _has_ overstepped. Instead, he carefully reaches forward and folds his fingers around the mug, drawing it closer to him. “I know. I just...I know it may not seem like it, but this actually _is_ me resting. It’s just...hard to stop thinking. It helps for me to have something to do.”

“I see,” Slightly mollified, Martin leans against the desk, cradling his mug. “What are you doing right now?”

Jon looks over at the bubbling pot in vague surprise, as though he’d forgotten it was there. Then he sighs and scrubs at his eyes. “Oh, ah...well. It’s probably ruined by now, but it was _supposed_ to be an improved cough tincture. I’ve heard from... _reliable_ sources that it’s inedible.”

“Reliable sources?” Martin raises his eyebrows, wondering at the strange emphasis on those words.

Jon shifts cagily. “I...may have been ordered to improve the flavor by some of my younger customers.”

Martin pauses.

“Jon,” he begins slowly. “Did you get bullied by a bunch of children into doing this?”

Jon flushes and ducks his head. “I wouldn’t— _bullied_ is a strong word, that’s...”

But Martin doesn’t let him finish. Instead he starts laughing, thoroughly amused at the idea of the city’s children marching up to Jon, who is normally so distant, and strong-arming him into changing the flavor of his cough syrup. He can’t _believe_ that he found this man to be intimidating.

“It’s a good test of my ability!” Jon tries, but he’s still blushing all the way up to the tips of his ears. “Cough tinctures have very precise recipes, if you change the balance just a _little_ you could ruin the whole—”

“Alright, alright,” Martin shakes his head, wiping at his eye. “I believe you. _No_ bullying involved.”

Jon eyes him suspiciously for a moment, as though checking for any dishonesty. Martin takes a sip of his tea to hide his smile. “Well...good.”

Jon turns off the burner on his failed cough tincture, and Martin watches his swift, sure movements. It’s a comfortable silence, lacking the tension that has characterized most of their earlier interactions.

“Martin.”

Martin looks over at Jon, who is standing over the pot, frowning at it deeply. _Oh no._ The man’s shoulders are curled up near his ears, and his entire posture screams discomfort.

He should’ve known that it was too good to last. Martin sets the mug down on the desk next to him, rubbing his thumb and pointer finger together nervously as he prepares for whatever is coming next. “Yes, Jon?”

“I, uh,” Jon glances down at Martin’s fidgeting hands, and his scowl deepens. Martin wants to fold in on himself. “I owe you an apology.”

Martin stops. Thinks about those words once, twice, uncomprehending. “What?”

“You’ve been sleeping on the floor,” Jon says in a rush. He turns away and shakes his head sharply, a short, agitated movement that bleeds frustration. “Which was...I didn’t think about it. You shouldn’t have had to...you could’ve asked. I—you _live_ here now, it’s my responsibility to make sure that you’re comfortable. You can have the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. I can...I’ll fix it up for you.”

“Oh.” Martin relaxes, pleasantly surprised by the apology, and strangely charmed by the man’s demeanor. He’s horrendously awkward, sure, but every word is refreshingly, achingly genuine. “I...apology accepted. And I appreciate the offer, but you probably shouldn’t be doing any physical activity.”

“Nonsense,” Jon puffs out his chest. “It’s my fault you’ve been sleeping on the floor, the _least_ I can do is—”

Martin tilts his head to one side, then reaches out and lightly jabs his thumb into the ribs on Jon’s right side. Jon immediately breaks off, lets out a noise like he’s just been stabbed and crumples a little, one arm wrapping around his stomach, the other clutching at the desk.

 _“That was unfair,”_ Jon gasps, releasing his grip on the desk to point accusingly at Martin.

That would have been far, far more intimidating before Martin learned that Jon can be bullied by small children, and before he saw Jon almost collapse onto the floor after getting poked. “Jon, please.”

Jon hesitates for a moment, rubbing absently at his side. Then he says, “I—I won’t do any heavy lifting, but I insist on helping. It’s the least that I can do.”

Martin knows a concession when he sees one. And he _does_ appreciate the help. “Alright.”

The thing that Martin very quickly learns about Jon as they’re cleaning the guest bedroom together: the man is actually quite good at organization. Martin had thought so after seeing the upstairs bathroom and the study. He watches as unobtrusively as he can as Jon carefully flicks dust from the shelves, organizes the books by subject and author, and rearranges the various odd objects with a serious, focused little frown on his face.

Martin is in the middle of folding the corner of the quilt when Jon frowns at a spiderweb in the top corner of the room and lifts a hand toward it. There’s a moment’s silence—Martin holds his breath at the sudden, strange weight that suddenly presses down around him—eyes blossom onto the skin of Jon’s arm, and his hair begins to swirl as though a strong breeze is blowing through the room—

And then the spiderweb is gone.

Jon lowers his hand, and the eyes wink out of existence as though they never were. His hair rustles one last time, and then falls still.

Martin lets out the breath he was holding. “That was amazing.”

Jon almost leaps out of his skin, as though he hadn’t noticed that Martin was still in the room. His gaze is wild and dark when he turns, but when it lights on Martin it softens, and he relaxes. “It wasn’t anything special. I just vanished a spiderweb.”

“Not to someone who’s never done magic before,” Martin shakes his head. _And so casually,_ he doesn’t say. He’s seen a few demonstrations over the years, and most had been very small tasks which had taken a lot out of the magic-user. Certainly he’s never seen someone casually vanish a spiderweb rather than just hit it with a broom. “How long have you been learning?”

Jon stares at Martin with piercing, considering eyes. He usually has a sort of barely-contained something about him, like he’s bursting full of energy but there’s no outlet to release the pressure. Now though, he’s completely and utterly still.

“I’ve had magic since I was a child,” he says eventually. There’s an odd, probing note to his voice that Martin can’t place. “But I learned to control my ability at the capital’s branch of the Magnus Institute.”

“Oh!” Martin feels like he was just handed the final piece of a puzzle, and is now able to see the full picture. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”

Jon shoots him a questioning look.

“I used to work at Ilar’s branch of the Magnus Institute as an assistant,” Martin hastens to explain. “You do a lot of the same things that we did, like recording statements and such. I’d wondered if there was a connection.”

“You—” Jon’s face crumples with confusion. “In Ilar? As an _assistant?”_

Martin puffs up at the derision in Jon’s voice when he says the word ‘assistant’. “It may not be very glamorous work, but we’re an integral part of the Institute.” 

Jon’s face goes through a complicated series of emotions—first taken aback, then bewildered—and then he lets out a little huff of laughter and shakes his head, chasing the waves of his hair with his fingertips. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, and then falls silent.

Martin waits for some sort of explanation of what he _did_ mean, if not to disparage his former job. Jon doesn’t elaborate though, just turns away and throws open the window, waving away the layer of dust that kicks up at the sudden breeze. Martin sighs. Jon obviously doesn’t want to talk about this any further, and he’s not willing to push Jon’s good will, not when it’s still so strange and new.

Then Jon frowns, and pulls himself farther out of the window, staring at something off in the distance. “What _is_ that?”

“What’s what?” Martin leans his broom against the wall and walks over, ducking to keep from hitting his head against the top of the window frame.

When he sees what Jon was looking at, he chokes in surprise. “Mr—Mr. Mannequin?”

Sure enough, the mannequin that had accompanied him to the castle that first day is sitting on the rim of its open maw. Martin has never had cause to call a mannequin _jaunty_ before, but he has no other way to describe the way the thing is leaning. It’s uniform is as crisp and impeccable as ever, metal fastenings gleaming in the sun.

Jon shoots him a look. “You know who that is?”

“It helped me find the castle,” Martin mutters, then leans out as far as he can and shouts, “Mr. Mannequin!”

The mannequin turns to look at him—or maybe in Martin’s direction, he couldn’t say. Upon spotting him, it takes off its hat and waves, before facing forward again. Martin grins—and then pauses when he notices that the view from this window is absolutely _spectacular._ The mountains in the distance are so tall they shatter the cloud layer, and the valleys in between are speckled with wildflowers and meadows and lakes like he’s never seen before.

This is his room. He gets to look outside and see this _every day_ if he wants.

“It’s gorgeous out here!” Martin shouts to Jon, trying to hold down his turbulent curls as they’re whipped around by the wind.

Jon blinks up at him, expression faintly dazed, his fingers tangled loosely in the folds of his shirt. “...yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

* * *

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get Mr. Mannequin to come inside the castle.

“I wanted to thank you again for helping me get to the castle,” Martin tells the mannequin earnestly.

The mannequin makes a vague, dismissive sort of wave, as though it were saying _it was nothing._ Martin gets the feeling that if it had a mouth, it would be giving him a casual, lazy grin.

Jon, who has been quietly conferring with Gerry in the hearth, lets out a quiet noise and approaches. “That’s quite a curse,” he says. Martin to nearly jumps out of skin and stares at Jon in shock. “Is there anything that we can do to help? We’re quite good at curse breaking.”

Under normal circumstances, Martin would be more concerned about the fact that apparently the mannequin is a person under a curse. All he can think of right now, though, is— “You know that he’s cursed? How?”

Jon shoots him a startled glance. “Well...sentient mannequins aren’t natural, so someone must have cursed him. It wasn’t a huge leap of logic.”

“Oh.” He deflates. It just figures that he would be under a curse that couldn’t be perceived just by looking at him. _Damn_. “I see.”

“More than that,” Jon tilts his chin in the mannequin’s direction. “That’s a Strangia uniform.”

“Oh!” Martin turns and squints at the uniform. Now that he looks at it, that _does_ look like a Strangia uniform. “Oh.”

They both look at the mannequin, who shrugs and waves dismissively again, like he’s saying, _I may be wearing the uniform of the country you’re at war with but don’t worry!_

“Right.” Jon shakes his head, and Martin forces himself to relax. Mr. Mannequin has already proven that he’s friendly, or at least not an immediate threat. “Again, is there anything that we can do to help you?”

The mannequin considers this for a second, hands resting on his hips, head tilted to one side in a parody of thinking. Then he shakes his head in what could either be _no, you can’t help me_ or _no, I don’t want you to help me._ Martin suspects that it’s the former rather than the latter.

“Well, there’s no sense of you hanging around outside all the time when it’s much more comfortable in here,” Martin tells him cheerfully. Then he remembers, _oh right, this isn’t your castle,_ flushes, and turns to Jon. “If—if that’d be okay with you, of course. I wouldn’t want to—to presume—”

“It’s your home too.” he’s not looking at Martin when he speaks, the words almost inaudible. Despite this, Martin feels as though he’s been punched solidly in the chest. Louder he says, “Of course you’re welcome, Mr. Mannequin.”

Martin barely hears him. _It’s your home, too,_ keeps circling round in his head, and he can’t quite help the smile that spreads across his face in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: me, shouting as loud as i possibly can: what if i want some cute jonmartins huh?? what if i want some wholesome bonding huh???


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can gerry read

Sasha leans against the wall beside the door to Jon’s castle, keeping one eye on the street.

She’d been shocked when Martin had informed her that she had a day off yesterday—Jon _never_ takes days off, is stubbornly resistant to anything that could be categorized as a break. She’s heard Gerry and Jon, usually as thick as thieves, get into blistering arguments over the subject. It’s not her business of course, but she can’t help but worry for his health, just a little.

So she’s deeply curious about what happened two days before, when Jon closed the shop early and ran off in a huff. Gerry and Martin had seemed equally confused, so it was obviously regarding something that neither of them knew about, which is just _odd._ Well, maybe not so odd that Martin doesn’t know. Jon seems hellbent on being rude to Martin for one reason or another. She doesn’t _think_ it’s a macho thing, just because Jon seems to have a distant, somewhat befuddled relationship with his own masculinity, but she doesn’t know for sure.

But _Gerry_ not knowing is unexpected. Gerry seems to have a second sense when it comes to Jon, like they have some sort of invisible connection, which isn’t _completely_ unheard of magically speaking.

Maybe she’s reading too much into this.

It’s just—Jon has long been a source of consternation for her. She came to him because he was the most powerful wizard in the Wastes, and she wanted to learn from him. And she _has_ learned from him, but only through osmosis. He seems almost completely unaware of how unusual his magical talent is, and is at a loss as to how to explain it. Everything she’s picked up is through constant, close observation.

She’s powerful for her age. It’s not arrogance; there was a reason she was accepted into the honor program of her city’s magical academy when she was merely thirteen. But Jon is—he’s _stupidly_ good at magic in a way she doesn’t have the ability to comprehend.

She sighs and shifts her weight from one leg to the other, grimacing at the low burn of pressure in her ankle. She shakes out her foot, sniffs, and resettles against the wall.

That’s not even mentioning Gerry. She has _no_ idea what to make of Gerry. She’s never met a magic user trapped in a fire before. She’s not even sure how to apply a curse that would have that effect.

She wants to know and _understand_ so badly that she almost aches with it. How could someone as young as Jon have obtained magic ability comparable to ancients? How did Gerry get trapped in the fire? Why do they seem to follow a whole separate set of magical laws that run parallel-but-not-quite to the ones she was taught in school? She wants to shake them until their secrets fall out of them like rain from the sky.

She’s pulled from her musings by the door beside her crackling softly, like there’s lightning trapped in the wood. Sasha pushes away from the wall and straightens as the sound of lock tumblers falling into place fill the air, strange and distorted and altogether impossible.

Most of all, she would like to know the secret of the traveling castle. The magic it takes to transport one person dimensionally, let alone a whole _building…_

“Sasha!” Martin calls, poking his head into the street, smiling guilelessly at her. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting long.”

She knows that she should be suspicious of Martin, with his oddly faded hair and eye color and indistinct face. He just shows up out of the blue one day, and the only explanation for his presence is that ‘Gerry hired him’, whatever that even _means._

However, it’s hard to be suspicious of him when he’s just so _nice._

“Hello Martin,” she responds, grinning as she steps inside. “Not long at all. Did you get a break yesterday as well?”

Martin’s eyes brighten, and his smile turns faintly shy. “Oh, yeah. It was...it was really great.”

_Really great?_ Sasha wonders, staring curiously at the side of his face. What with the way Jon normally treats him, she would’ve expected for Martin to look a little less enchanted.

Before she can push the topic, though, Martin shakes himself and continues, “I should warn you, though, we have a new guest. We think—well, _Jon_ thinks that he’s been cursed, though he doesn’t know how to help him. He was just wandering around the Wastes, so I, um, I figured I should invite him inside? It’s less lonely that way.”

Sasha raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Jon’s quite good at curse-breaking, so it must be a nasty one. Thoughtful of you to invite him inside.” _And a little foolish. It’s dangerous to invite random people inside, even if they’ve been…_

Then she reaches the top of the steps and pauses in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat.

It’s a mannequin, and its skin is the off-white of stretched, treated canvas. Its face has two soft divots where the eyes should be, an impression of a smile over its mouth. Its movements are short, sharp, and jerky, an imperfect facsimile of a human being. It’s wrong in a way that Sasha feels rather than knows, and—

Its military uniform is maroon, with bright gold fastenings and medals on its breast, and _she would know it anywhere._

She takes a short, stabbing breath, and forces herself to keep walking forward until she’s standing directly in front of the creature. She’s barely able to keep her expression under control as she casually asks, “Jon says that he doesn’t know how to help him?”

“No.” Martin doesn’t sound like he noticed her hesitation, and she has never been so thankful for his lack of awareness.

The mannequin, which had been frozen until this moment, stutters into motion. He takes a step forward and lifts his arms, and it takes her a split second to realize that he’s going in for a hug, and another for her to give a brief, quelling jerk of her head. He pauses, his head tilting stiltedly to one side, before letting his arms drop.

_It’s him!_ Her mind crows gleefully, and she wants to run to him, to hug him, and to slap him over the head for worrying her. But she can’t, not now, not when she still doesn’t know if she can trust Jon or Martin.

She doesn’t think that they’d hurt him, or use him to their advantage. But there’s still too much she doesn’t know about Jon and Martin, and she’s not willing to risk his life on the gamble that they’re trustworthy unless she knows that the odds are in her favor.

“Obviously this is the work of someone who has an affinity for the Stranger.”

Martin and Sasha turn around to see Jon standing at the base of the stairs, his hair flowing in loose waves around his shoulders. He’s wearing an oversized, long-sleeve cotton shirt that’s tucked into the top of his black trousers. The plain outfit is brightened by a fine green sash embroidered with gold, which has been tied around his slim waist.

“Jon!” Gerry calls from the fire, and when Sasha turns to look, the hearthkeeper is already halfway out of the fire. “Let me do your hair?”

Jon rolls his eyes, but steps away from the stairs and holds very still as Gerry circles around behind him and begins separating the strands with quick, sure motions. Beside her, Martin lets out an audible swallow.

Sasha takes the opportunity to step closer to the mannequin and squeeze his bicep, smiling when he briefly leans over and bops the side of his head on her shoulder. Her heart _sings._

Then she turns her attention back to Jon. “You said that this curse has the Stranger’s affinity?”

“Body modification is a dead giveaway for the Stranger,” Jon responds, folding his arms over his chest. His motions are significantly limited by the fact that Gerry is cheerfully weaving his hair into a complicated looking bun. “I’d be surprised if it were anything else.”

“The Stranger?” Martin asks curiously.

It’s Gerry who answers, even as distracted as he is. “One of the fourteen magical affinities.”

“What are those?”

Gerry doesn’t pause, but Sasha shoots Martin a startled glance. It’s not unusual that he doesn’t know what the fourteen affinities are, per se; it’s the sort of knowledge that most magic users wouldn’t know. He’s living in a castle with _Jon,_ though _._ It’s the sort of topic that she thought Martin would at least have a passing knowledge in.

...if Martin genuinely doesn’t know what the fourteen affinities are, does that mean he doesn’t understand who he’s living with?

Martin flushes under their gazes but holds his ground, his lips pressed together in a tight line of defiance. He’s tense and embarrassed but he’s not backing down, and Sasha feels a small bit of pride toward him.

Then she looks over at Jon, and they catch eyes. Jon reaches up, his hand hovering over his hair. “Gerry, are you almost done?”

“Just finished,” Gerry says, stepping away.

Jon feels at his bun, then turns and gives the hearthkeeper a small, grateful smile. Then he turns back to Martin and says, to Sasha’s utter shock, “Get a notepad. You can join Sasha and I outside, and we can explain it to you between clients.”

“Oh!” Martin flushes a bright red, and Sasha turns to stare at him, a little off balance. “Y-yeah, that would be great, thank you.”

Jon gives him a clipped, perfunctory nod, before gathering up an armful of books and heading down the stairs. Sasha watches him go before turning to look at Martin, and is unsurprised to find a small, enchanted smile on his lips.

“So what did you do?”

Martin jerks at her voice. She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Sorry?”

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to see him treating you better.” And it _is_ good. Martin is so genuine, so sweet, that it had pained her to see Jon treating him that way. But… “What prompted it?”

He shrugs. “I honestly couldn’t tell you. He’s been like this since yesterday.”

Sasha hums absently, and as she turns to go, she locks eyes with Gerry’s burning orange gaze. He raises his eyebrows at her, simultaneously challenging and questioning.

She frowns. _Ever more secrets, and still no answers._

* * *

An unexpected but not unpleasant consequence of sitting outside with Sasha and Jon is that Martin finally gets to observe their work. He had brought a book outside to keep himself occupied while they were with clients, but he keeps getting distracted by the proceedings.

Several people had been milling around right when they had opened, as though waiting any longer to give their statement was an exercise in will. Their faces had been masks of hunted desperation, their limbs nervous and agitated as they’d waited. Martin recognizes the look—he hadn’t taken statements when he worked as an assistant in the Institute, but he’d passed by the waiting area often enough.

Sasha and Jon were both obviously experienced at taking statements, though. They were professional and courteous, and the clients left with relieved expressions and the promise that their experiences would at least be followed up on if not confirmed. Although, as soon as one of the clients left Jon had scowled at their statement and muttered something about it being another fake.

Ever since the statements, they’ve mostly been selling tinctures and treatments to those who are ill, or have any variety of ailments. Martin’s been listening to the stories with vague fascination, bewildered and quite frankly a little terrified at the breadth of issues Jon and Sasha are treating.

“Can you tell me a little bit more about her symptoms?” Sasha asks, tapping her pen thoughtfully against the notepad.

The man shifts in his chair, shaking his bangs out of his face, the very image of discomfort. “Well…she’s been sick and weak for the past couple of weeks. Complains about a constant headache, and she’s quite stiff as well.”

Sasha jots down a couple of notes. “Any unusual marks? Rashes or bruises, or anything?”

The man hesitates for a moment, chewing on his lip uncertainly. Finally he allows, “Well...there’s an odd bruise on her shoulder. I can’t see how the two would be related, though.”

“Have you been out of town recently?” Jon cuts in, his dark eyes big and intent. Martin peers over the top of his book, fascinated by the confidence in Jon’s voice. “Say, in a forest or in the mountains?”

“Why…” the man shoots Jon a surprised glance. “How did you know?”

Jon nods. “I’ll be back.”

A couple of minutes later, Sasha is ringing the man up for the treatment while Jon settles back into his chair, writing in the journal that he uses to keep track of clients. Martin finally gives up pretending to read and sets the book down so he can watch the page fill up.

Finally, Jon sits back in his seat and stretches out his back, sighing deeply through his nose. Martin carefully focuses his attention back on the cover of the book rather than the curve of Jon’s spine.

“We’re almost out of the treatment for that,” Sasha comments, sitting back down and rearranging her notepad and writing implements on the table.

Jon closes his eyes briefly, before shaking his head and leaning back over his desk, shaking out his writing hand. “I’ll make some more tonight.”

“Is it hard to make?” Martin asks curiously.

“Very,” Sasha says, the same time Jon says, “Not really.”

They both pause and look at each other for a moment, their faces twin pictures of surprise.

Then Jon lets out an embarrassed cough and turns to Martin, while Sasha rolls her eyes and busies herself with taking out one of the portable burners and a pot. “So, ah, did you want to hear about the fourteen affinities?”

“Sure,” Martin responds eagerly, leaning over and taking out the notepad from beneath his chair.

“Well,” Jon taps his fingers idly against the table. “Magic in its purest form has no...no purpose. It’s...I guess the best descriptor is inert? So, magic users have to give magic direction or purpose before it can be used. That’s also how it gains an affinity, of which there are only fourteen.”

Martin blinks. “That seems kind of limiting though, doesn’t it? That you can only use magic in fourteen different ways.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sasha interjects as she absentmindedly tips some sort of root into the bubbling thing she’s making. “Magic users have gotten pretty creative over the years.”

“For example, the Desolation,” Jon seamlessly picks up the conversation, as though he and Sasha have rehearsed this. “In its purest form, its flames can only be used for unmitigated destruction. However, in the hand of an experienced magic user, it can be used to _desolate_ infections in the human body. Most treatments, including the one we just sold, are affiliated with the Desolation.”

_The Desolation,_ Martin writes on the notebook. Below that, he adds, _Unmitigated destruction. Alternative uses: fighting infections._

When he looks back up, Jon is nodding approvingly. “The Buried imbues magic with the irresistible draw of the earth. Magic users with that affinity used to bury their enemies deep in the ground. Of course, it should be pretty obvious that it’s also useful in farming.”

Martin pauses in the middle of writing the word, _farming_ , and frowns at Jon. “What do you mean ‘magic users with that affinity’?”

Jon blinks owlishly, then turns and looks at Sasha. “Did I not say?”

Sasha doesn’t even twitch. “You did not.”

“Oh.” he turns back to Martin. “Well. Magic users tend to stick to one affinity, as the more they use it the more skilled they become. Also, affinities don’t mix well, so if a magic user tries to use multiple ones then they lose the ability to master any.”

“Unless they’re you,” Sasha adds blithely.

Jon flushes, fiddling with a strand of hair that’s escaped his bun. “That’s…”

“Jon’s a magical phenomenon and can use all fourteen affinities interchangeably,” Sasha informs Martin, her eyes alight with dry humor. “The king’s advisor is still furious with him for refusing to fight in the royal wizard’s battalion. It’s the reason that Jon can’t go into the capital without being accosted by the royal guard.”

“I’m not some tool to be used to destroy other people,” Jon snaps, his voice full of an unexpected heat that has both Martin and Sasha recoiling in surprise. “I _won’t._ It’s...it’s a perversion of everything magic is _supposed_ to be. _”_

Martin stares at Jon, at the tense line of his shoulders, at the haunted anger in his eyes. He wonders at the kind of person who was able to put a look like that on Jon’s face, who thought they could use Jon as a tool to destroy other people. Was it the same person who cursed him and Gerry?

“Of course,” Sasha’s voice is quiet and pained. “We don’t think that, Jon.”

Jon stays tense, hanging on to that fury, but his resolve wavers more and more with every second that passes, bleeding into something quieter. The bitter sadness left behind looks so heavy that Martin’s heart _aches_ , and he reaches out and squeezes Jon’s wrist reassuringly.

Jon blinks and glances at Martin, surprise flashing across his eyes. Then he ducks his head and tucks his loose hair behind his ear. “I...ah, of course not. I apologize for my outburst.”

“It’s okay,” Sasha says.

“Mr. Sims?”

The three of them jump in unison and look up. A young boy is standing in front of their table, his expression bored. He’s wearing a postboy uniform that looks like it was crisp and clean a hundred years ago, except now the trousers are muddy around the hems, and the cuffs of the shirt are frayed. The only thing that’s still pristine is the navy blue flat cap, which looks one wrong move from falling off.

Jon relaxes. “Mr. Brody. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Letter for you,” Brody says, handing him the aforementioned letter. “It’s got a royal stamp on it. Are you working for the bastards at the capital now?”

_The king’s advisor is still furious with him for refusing to fight in the royal wizard’s battalion._

Martin looks at Jon just in time to catch the moment’s pause as he takes the letter. He covers his hesitation well though, sniffing and shaking his head like he’s dismissing an irritating fly. “Of course not.”

Brody relaxes, and for the first time an easy, somewhat pointed grin crosses his face. “I didn’t think so. Have you made that better tasting cough medicine yet?”

Jon flushes, and under any other circumstance Martin would be laughing at him for it. But all he can see is the letter still clutched in Jon’s hand, and when he glances at Sasha, he can see the same worry reflected in her eyes.

* * *

Hours later, after they close for the day and Sasha finally goes home, Jon sits on the edge of the hearth and opens the letter. Gerry leans over Jon’s shoulder to read while Martin spoons stew into three bowls, keeping one eye on the two of them. He won’t ask about it unless they decide to tell him, but he is _deathly_ curious.

“Hm,” Gerry says flatly, scowling and pulling away from Jon. “That’s not good.”

“It’s been _years,”_ Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why has he decided to try to draft me into the war _now?”_

“He?” Martin asks, unable to help himself.

“The king’s advisor, Elias Bouchard.” Gerry shakes his head. “Well, you’re obviously not going.”

“What other choice do I have?” Jon spits, pushing away from the hearth. He stands in place for a second, shifting his weight from one foot to another, before starting to pace back and forth. “I signed a magically binding contract with the Institute when I first joined, if I refuse to go at all—well. He can’t make me fight, but I don’t like to think about the consequences if I refused to go at all.”

Martin settles against the hearth with his bowl of stew, looking to Gerry, to Jon, and back again. Jon’s hands are now fluttering anxiously, and Gerry’s jaw is set in a hard, determined line. Whoever this _Elias_ person is, he’s enough of a threat to make Gerry dig his heels in and to make Jon—

Is he scared? Martin blinks at the revelation, but the other two are still talking, their voices beginning to soar in the tight space.

“I don’t like to think about the consequences if you _do_ go!” Gerry unfolds his arms, his eyes and the fire in the hearth glowing a bright, incandescent blue. “You know it’s a trap. What if he finishes what he started, hm? What will you do then?”

“I don’t _know!_ I don’t know! I don’t know why he’s chosen _now_ to summon me to the capital when it’s been _years,_ and— _”_ Jon breaks off, stopping dead in his tracks, his face a wild mask of desperation and yes, _terror._ His gasping, frantic breaths are too loud, too disturbed, and without warning he wraps his shaking arms around himself, as though he’s trying to hold himself together.

Martin rises to his feet, alarmed, but Gerry’s face is already twisting with something that looks like regret, and then he’s across the room. He throws his arms around Jon’s slender shoulders and tilts their heads together, his voice rough and low as he says, “Hey, hey, I’m sorry. We’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

“I can’t go back there,” Jon’s voice is muffled, but the tremble in it makes Martin’s heart clench. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“Does _he_ have to go?”

Jon and Gerry both look up at the sound of Martin’s voice, the former wide-eyed, the latter confused and slightly impatient.

“He signed a contract with the Institute years ago. He has to _respond_ at least—”

Martin shakes his head. “No, I mean does Jon have to go personally? If someone went in his place…”

Gerry’s mouth snaps shut, and he glances sideways at Jon. Jon looks back at him, then to Martin, his face a mixture of befuddlement and dawning hope. “Are you…” he swallows. “Are you offering to go?”

Martin sets the bowl of stew down next to him and lifts his chin. “So what if I am? It’d be safer for me, wouldn’t it?I have no magical ability. He wouldn’t care about me.”

Jon steps away from Gerry’s embrace and toward Martin, his eyebrows pinched with worry. “I...I suppose it would be safer. If I...if I were to have a way to get you out of there...but just because it’s safer for you doesn’t mean that it’s _safe._ You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“So tell him,” Gerry interrupts gently. “Let him help you, Jon.”

Jon wavers. “Martin, you don’t, you don’t even _know me._ I’ve been intolerably rude to you these past couple of days, I _know_ I have—”

“This guy, Elias. He could seriously hurt you, couldn’t he?” Martin shakes his head. “Thanks for the apology I guess, but just because you’ve been a bit rude doesn’t mean that I want you to face whatever he has planned for you.”

Jon stares at him for a moment, still and expressionless. He looks like the sort of person the artists carve statues of, graceful in his stillness. Then he says, so quiet that Martin's not sure he's aware that he's speaking, "I have never misjudged someone the way I have you."

Martin's mind goes blank. "I—that's—"

Jon shakes his head, bulling forward. "I’m going to tell you about Elias Bouchard. Then, if you still want to go in my place, I'll... _we'll_ work out a plan to make sure you get out of there in one piece."

_Wow._ Okay. They’re actually doing this. “Okay.” Then he realizes that the bowls of stew are still cooling on the hearth. “Let’s talk about it over food, okay?”

“Oh,” Jon says, blinking owlishly. “Sure.”

“I think that sounds like a _great_ idea,” Gerry says, grinning as Martin hands him the bowl. He turns away quickly so he doesn’t have to witness Gerry knocking it back like it’s a shot.

A couple of minutes later, Jon and Martin are sitting across from each other on the floor, their respective meals cradled in their laps.

“So, Martin. Tell me what you know about Elias Bouchard.”

“He’s the head of the Magnus Institute and the king’s closest advisor,” Martin offers, dragging his spoon through the thick liquid. “He’s held both those positions for...almost thirty years now? He’s also an extremely talented wizard who was put in charge of the royal magic battalion when the war broke out.”

Jon nods, and absentmindedly shoves a spoonful into his mouth. He pauses, his eyes widening, and looks down into the stew. “This is really good.”

“Oh.” Martin feels himself flush with pleasure. “Thanks.”

“Anyway,” Jon shakes his head. “He’s extremely dangerous. His connection to the Beholding has given him access to dangerous knowledge, and his connections to the upper echelon of society have made him immune to legal retribution.”

“What kind of knowledge?”

Just for a second, Jon’s eyes flicker to Gerry’s hearth. Then he’s focused back on Martin, as steady and calm as ever. “He can steal magic from other people.”

The way Jon pauses after saying that makes Martin have the feeling that that’s supposed to mean more to him than it does. He just...doesn’t know enough about magic to discern what is and is not unusual. “I assume that’s...bad.”

“Very bad,” Gerry interjects, and when Martin looks over his face is set in an uncharacteristically dark frown. “It goes against the natural laws of magic.”

Martin shakes his head. “That’s all very well and good, except that I don’t _have_ magic. I don’t see how that would affect me.”

Jon makes a quiet, surprised sound. “But you _do_ have magic?”

For the second time that night, Martin’s mind goes blank. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Turns to look at Gerry, who’s resting his cheek on his hand, looking vaguely amused. “... _what?”_

“I, uh.” Jon glances at Gerry as well, his mouth twisting at the corner. “I thought you knew? I mean, it’s obviously untrained but you _do_ have it. Er…”

“I did _not_ know that!” Martin rounds on Gerry, who is slowly sinking back into the hearth. “Did you know about this?”

“Thanks for the stew…” Gerry’s voice peters out as he disappears fully into the flames.

_Magic._ Martin turns back to his bowl, staring blankly down at his hands. His magical hands, because he is someone who has magic. All his life he’s spent thinking about how interesting and cool magic is, when all along _he was magic._

“Huh.”

“Huh indeed,” Jon responds dryly. “But Elias has the ability to steal your magic from you. It’s not instantaneous, but it’s still a threat."

Martin pauses.

He’s only just learned that he has magic, but somehow the idea of someone stealing it from him, robbing him of this new, strange part of himself...it feels wrong. Viscerally, achingly _wrong._ Suddenly, he understands why Jon had paused so significantly after saying that Elias could steal magic.

“Your magic is less attractive to him, though,” Jon continues, almost dismissively. “Raw, untrained magic is less useful and takes longer to siphon than a magic user who’s a master.”

Which means that Jon, who is apparently a magical phenomenon and can navigate all fourteen affinities with ease, must be the crown jewel. Martin swallows down his fear, sets his jaw, and nods. “Okay. Sure. What do I need to do?”

Jon’s head jerks up, his expression disbelieving. “Are you sure? Even after…”

“Safer for me, right?” Martin forces a smile onto his face, clasping his hands tighter around his stew to keep them from shaking.

And for just a moment, Jon looks perfectly lost, achingly confused, his dark eyes wide, unmoving. Martin wishes he had his notebook, because he feels that he could write poetry about breathless surprise at a genuine offer to help, and bones so fine they would shatter before they would break. He feels like he could write something and _mean_ it.

Then Jon smiles, and _oh,_ Martin could write poetry about that too. “When this is all over, Martin,” he says. “Whatever you like. If it’s within my power, I’ll give it to you.”

Martin lets out a short, surprised laugh. “I didn’t do this because I _wanted_ something, Jon.”

“Still,” Jon shakes his head, unconvinced.

Martin opens his mouth to disagree, but then pauses, because there _is_ something now that he thinks about it. “Would you teach me how to use magic?”

Jon shoots him a look of surprise, before his lips curl in a shy smile of delight. “I’d be delighted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have come to the conclusion that gerry can, in fact, read
> 
> AND ALSO, im super super excited to link some absolutely gorgeous art that people made for this fic!!
> 
> zannolin made some STUNNING calcifer!gerry art, HE'S SO CUTE AND I LOVE HIM!!!  
> [link](https://zannolin.tumblr.com/post/622490789162975232/so-iceeckos12-apparently-tunglr-has-fucked-my) [link](https://zannolin.tumblr.com/post/621551276273057792/so-im-absolutely-enamoured-with-jons-moving)
> 
> and ringingsilent made this wonderful art of all of them!! i adore jon and sasha's expressions, and gerry, and martin and AHHHH  
> [link](https://ringingsilent.tumblr.com/post/622288676966350848/ive-been-reading-iceeckos12s-jons-moving)


	8. Chapter 8

Around lunchtime, Martin takes a look at their empty cabinets, sighs, and goes to write up a shopping list.

He’s learned his lesson from last time, at least. He carefully writes up detailed, separate shopping lists for each stall, which he plans to hand to the sellers. They may have trouble noticing _him,_ but a piece of paper in their hands is less forgettable. He hopes it will be less forgettable, anyway.

Martin sighs, shakes the thought away, and finishes writing his shopping lists. He’s about to tuck them into his pocket when he has a sudden thought. He hesitates, biting his lip, before shrugging and approaching the hearth.

“Ger?”

The fire surges toward him, morphing and growing as it approaches. Gerry’s face appears, and then his arms, and then he’s leaning on his elbows against the edge of the hearth, his cheek cupped in his hand. “Yes?”

It’s a testament to how long Martin has been living here that he barely blinks at the theatrics. “I’m going to the store. I was just wondering if you had any requests?”

Gerry blinks owlishly, and then a surprised grin spreads across his face, so wide that it crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Martin, have I ever told you how wonderful you are?”

“It could stand to be repeated,” he quips, inordinately pleased.

“Well, you’re wonderful. Would you make that curry again?”

“Anything for you, Ger,” Martin agrees, adding a couple of things to the list before waving Gerry and the mannequin goodbye.

Martin steps onto the cobblestone street and takes a deep breath of the clean, salty air. Clouds are drifting lazily across the deep blue sky, and the fresh breeze from the sea is enough to offset the humidity. 

“Where are you off to?” Sasha asks. She’s wearing a pair of reading glasses, which only serves to make her look far more elegant than she already was.

“Just a bit of shopping,” he responds cheerfully. “The cabinets are empty and Gerry’s requested curry, so. Duty calls, and all.”

Sasha’s eyes light up. “That sounds nice.”

Jon, sitting on the other side of Sasha, looks up from his paperwork and frowns. “Wait, Martin, did you say you were going shopping?”

“Yes?” he hesitates, then asks, “Did you need something?”

“Mind if I come with? There’s something that I need from the magic shop.” Jon is already rising to his feet and placing a paperweight on the stack of papers. “If—Sasha, if you’d be willing to watch the table, of course—”

“Uh,” Martin feels strangely off kilter. He’s not _opposed_ to Jon coming with him, per se, he just wasn’t expecting it. “Um—”

“Sure,” Sasha waves him away. “Go have fun.”

Shopping with Jon is a...surreal experience.

Not that Jon acts weird, or anything. He wanders around the market while Martin shops, occasionally returning to his side just long enough to stuff something into their bags. Despite his insistence that food is a distraction he _does_ seem to have things that he likes, including mangos and fried balls of ground chickpeas and spices that he calls ‘falafels’.

It’s surreal in that it feels so _domestic,_ like they’re just two regular people going on an outing together. Jon wrinkles his nose when Martin puts a bunch of bananas into the bag for himself. Martin gags when Jon holds something that smells pungent and strongly of fish under his nose. They almost get into an argument about Martin carrying all the bags, which he only loses because Jon doesn’t look like he’s going to relent any time soon.

In this moment, it’s easy to forget who they are, the weight they both carry. Martin finds himself smiling so wide when Jon isn’t looking that his cheeks hurt.

Ten minutes later, they’re standing in front of the magic shop, holding their shopping bags from earlier. It’s a bit out of the way, tucked into a tiny space near the end of the street. The windows are cluttered with items that look kitschy even to Martin’s inexperienced eyes, and the sign that simply reads, _King’s Magic Goods,_ is faded and peeling.

“Just a warning,” Jon begins, and when Martin looks at him his expression is faintly pained. “The shop owner isn’t that fond of me.”

Martin frowns. “Not fond as in wants to kill you not fond, or not fond as in doesn’t like you?”

Jon hesitates. When he speaks it’s slow and deliberate, like he’s carefully choosing each word. “The first time we met I...may have disparaged her shop. Just a bit. So...she wants to kill me a _little_ bit, but it’s not...it’s not that serious? Like...passive murderous intent, I guess.”

Martin’s not entirely sure that he understands. However, he’s beginning to realize that when it comes to Jon, there are just things that aren’t going to make sense. “Right.”

Jon nods brusquely, and then they both head inside.

The magic shop both is and isn’t what Martin had been expecting. It’s a bit cluttered, but lamps have been strategically placed to gently illuminate the shelves, giving it an almost ethereal atmosphere. Thick carpets have been laid out on the ground, so plush that Martin has to resist reaching down and rubbing the material between his fingers. There’s a row of bookshelves lining the far wall, a section dedicated to plants, a variety of tools, and other objects that Martin couldn’t even begin to guess the purpose of.

“What are we looking for?” he wonders, drifting closer to the shelf full of tools. He thinks that he recognizes some of them from Jon’s office.

“Try not to touch anything,” Jon warns, grabbing Martin’s sleeve and tugging him closer. “I want to make you a talisman.”

Martin is so distracted by Jon’s fingers tangled in the fabric of his sweater that the words take a second to register. “A what?”

“A talisman,” Jon repeats, gesturing for Martin to follow him as he speaks. Martin does so, careful not to brush up against any of the shelves. “I’m not letting you go into the capital without some form of protection.”

“Oh.” Again, Martin wishes that he had a little bit more context for what is and is not unusual when it comes to magic. Do people normally make talismans for each other? “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Jon says solemnly, finally stopping in front of a wicker basket sitting on a pedestal. There’s a little sign that reads, _Protective Charms! :)_ in cheerful, glittering blue marker. He almost misses that there's braille right below it.

“So how do you _make_ a talisman?” Martin peers into the basket, which appears to be full of tiny, delicate flowers encased in glass.

Jon picks a couple of flowers from the basket at random and examines them closely, as though searching for imperfections. He discards a couple, chooses a few more, then turns to Martin and deposits three into his hand. One is indigo with a bright yellow stamen, one a soft, dusky purple, and the last one looks like a tiny white daffodil. They’re surprisingly warm, and Martin carefully turns them over, enchanted by how perfect and vibrant they are.

“These are three different types of charms,” Jon explains. “The blue one is for protection, the purple one is for luck, and the white one is for clarity of thought. They’re useless until you encase them in a layer of magic, which will give them power. After that, if you encounter some form of magical ill will, the charms will activate and protect you.”

“Oh!” Martin looks down at the charms, amazed that something so little could do something like that. “That sounds useful.”

“It is,” Jon agrees, sounding pleased. Martin tips the little charms back into his palm, and they head up to the counter together.

The woman at the front desk is _definitely_ not what Martin had expected a magic store owner to look like. She looks to be about Martin’s age, and her light blue hair is cut into a sharp, stylish bob. She’s wearing black lipstick, and her eyes are a pale, milky brown.

Her head snaps up when she hears them approaching, and her cute, freckled nose wrinkles with distaste. _“Sims.”_

“Hello, Melanie,” Jon sounds wary, and Martin wonders if he was downplaying the whole ‘murderous intent’ thing. “How’s your day been?”

“Pretty good, until you walked in.” She sniffs, and then turns to Martin. “Who’s this, then?”

“I’m Martin,” Martin says, trying not to feel too intimidated despite the fact that she seems to be even shorter than Jon is. “Gerry’s assistant.”

At Gerry’s name, she perks up, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “Gerry? How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Oh! Well, he’s—he’s fine, you know, still stuck in the fire. I—”

“I would love to stay and chat,” Jon interjects smoothly, shooting Martin an apologetic glance, “But we really do need to get back.”

“Hmph,” Melanie doesn’t seem too impressed by that, but she doesn’t otherwise object, apparently as eager to have Jon out of her shop as he is to leave. She rings them up, and lightly brushes her fingers over the faces on the coins to count them before handing them the change. “Nice meeting you, Martin. Jon, if I never see you again it’ll be too soon.”

“Likewise,” Jon mutters, and quickly ushers Martin out of the door.

* * *

Three days before the meeting with Elias Bouchard, Jon, Gerry, and Martin all sit down to have a strategy meeting. The mannequin, who generally wanders in and out of the castle at random, is nowhere to be seen.

“If we’re going to do this, we need to make sure we do it right,” Jon says, taking the string off an old parchment and unrolling it on the carpet in front of them. It looks to be a roughly drawn floor plan of some building, probably the palace.

“This would be easier on a table,” Gerry comments, absently rubbing the corner of the parchment between his fingers. Jon swats at his hand with a grumble, and Gerry retreats, grinning sheepishly. The corner he’d been fondling is now blackened and curled, thin smoke streaming into the air.

“We have one,” Martin tells him brightly. “I’ve been meaning to set it up. We can take meals on it.”

_“Focus,_ you two,” Jon tells them sternly, though his lip quirks at the corner.

“Sorry.” Martin doesn’t feel sorry at all. He feels a bit daring, actually. Now that he’s gotten the shock of his magic and the horror at it being stolen worked out of his system, he realizes that he’s going to pull a fast one over the _king’s royal advisor._ He’s going to thwart the plans of one of the most powerful men in the country. It doesn’t quite feel real.

“We’re very focused,” Gerry says, his face a perfect picture of innocence, his shoulder nudging Martin’s.

The touch is brief enough that Martin barely feels the scalding heat, and he lets himself grin giddily. “Yup.”

Jon rolls his eyes, but a reluctantly amused, exasperated smile flickers across his face. Then he shakes his head, visibly forcing himself to be firm. “I’m serious. Elias is not to be underestimated. We really _do_ need to make sure that we have several backup plans in place in case plan A falls through.”

Martin sobers at that. _Elias is dangerous enough to frighten both Gerry and Jon,_ he reminds himself. “What’s plan A?”

Jon smiles wryly. “You go in. You tell him that I’m too cowardly to fight in the war. He lets you go home, and no one gets hurt.”

Gerry snorts, which goes to show just how likely the two of them think plan A is going to work.

“Well,” Martin swallows, folding his hands nervously in his lap, almost afraid to ask. “What do you think is the more likely scenario?”

“Elias loves his drama,” Gerry says darkly, and though the fire rises in the hearth, the room’s shadows are thrown into stark relief, painting darkness across their faces. “He’ll receive you. You’ll tell him that Jon won’t fight in his war, and he’ll nod and listen politely. Then he’ll lay your darkest secrets to bear, and once you’re vulnerable he’ll steal your magic and kill you.”

Martin’s breath is caught somewhere in his throat, his heart fluttering like the frantically beating wings of a hummingbird. Gerry’s words echo in his mind, circling round and round, folding in on themselves. The shadows continue to distend and warp, but Gerry’s eyes are two coals set deep in his face, burning with an intense blue flame.

In the brief time he’s lived here, he’s forgotten how powerful Gerry is. But with the hearth’s flames licking high, pulling in all the light like black holes do to starlight, he is all too aware that smoldering fires still have the capacity to burn.

Then Jon snaps, “Gerry!”

Gerry lets out a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like the roll of smoke from a bonfire. The flames dim to their normal, steady orange, and the shadows snap back to where they should be. The silence persists though, and Martin is too frightened to even try to broach it.

Then Gerry sighs again, but it’s a tired, human sound. “Sorry. I _really_ don’t like that guy.”

Martin forces himself to unfold his fingers from the fabric of his trousers, flexing to get the blood moving again, and shakily says, “I couldn’t tell.”

Jon is less impressed by the casual, terrifying show of strength. “If you don’t mind, I’d really like to get to planning, so all that stuff _doesn’t happen._ Is that okay with you?”

Gerry glares out at Jon from behind his curtain of dark hair, but the sniping seems to be calming him down, because he leans back in his chair and gestures toward the map. He doesn’t look relaxed, but it’s a far cry from the dark, wrathful thing he’d been earlier. “Please.”

“Great,” Jon says, tucking his hair behind his ear. “So. Like Gerry said, he has the ability to Know your deepest secrets and your darkest dreams.” he glances at Martin. “It’s a Beholding thing. Anyway, the first thing we’ll need to do is protect you from his Sight. Difficult to do, but not impossible. I’m making a protective talisman, and Gerry, if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Yeah, I can enchant it,” Gerry finishes, pensive. “I don’t know how strong it’ll be considering we only have three days.”

“At best, he’ll be there for a half hour,” Jon retorts. “It’ll be good enough.”

“Is there nothing that I can do?” Martin knows the answer to that question even as he says it, but he can’t help himself. He just feels so _helpless,_ and still a little off balance after Gerry’s outburst.

Jon shakes his head. “I’m afraid that training your magic at all would make it easier for Elias to steal. Unfortunately—”

But suddenly, startlingly, Gerry sits up straighter and cuts in, “Jon, why don’t we teach him to See?”

_See?_ Martin wonders, but Jon seems to understand because he frowns thoughtfully, tilting his head to one side. “That’s...not a bad idea. I wonder, do we have enough time to teach him how to repel bonds?”

“Wait, hold on a second.” Martin slashes the air in front of him impatiently. “I’m lost. What do you mean _See?_ What bonds?”

“It’s a trick that every magic user can do,” Gerry explains, his eyes dancing. “If you overlay magic over your vision in a certain way, you can see magical bindings.”

“It’s easier for some affinities than others,” Jon cuts in, shooting Gerry a look Martin can’t interpret. “The Beholding can see what type the magical binding is and other information. The Web can see the way _people_ are bound together, and especially talented magic users can break those bindings. The other affinities can just see that magic is being used, and repel unwanted magical bindings.”

Martin’s mind is spinning, trying to process the amount of information that’s being presented to him. It’s a lot, especially considering that he only learned about the affinities yesterday. He doesn’t really get that part about the Web, but the Beholding makes sense at least. “Do you know what my affinity is?”

Jon shrugs. “I mean...people tend to choose their affinity after they start learning magic. Sometimes people can start with an inclination toward one or the other, but in the end, it’s their decision.”

“So no,” Gerry adds, grinning. “We have no idea.”

“Ah, right.” Jon flushes. “No, we don’t know.”

“Oh.” Martin’s not sure if he feels relieved or disappointed by that. “I’d like to learn how to...how to See, if that’s okay. I want to be able to do _something.”_

“I understand.” Jon nods solemnly. He turns to face Martin, and then starts _shuffling closer._

“Wh-What are you doing?” Martin squeaks, leaning backward and cursing his propensity to flush a bright, obvious red when he’s embarrassed. He swears he sees Gerry smirking out of the corner of his eye.

Jon looks more bothered by the fact that Martin is leaning backward than by their sudden proximity. “You said you wanted to learn how to See, right?”

“Well, _yes.”_ Martin doesn’t see why they need to be sitting knee to knee to do that, though.

“This is how I taught Jon,” Gerry adds reassuringly. “Promise, it won’t hurt a bit.”

Martin whips his head to the hearthkeeper so fast he hears something in his neck _crack._ “What do you _mean_ it won’t hurt?”

_“Gerry.”_ Jon’s face is twisted in pain.

“Sorry, Jon.”

Jon takes a deep breath, and then focuses his attention back to Martin in a way that feels uncomfortably like someone trying not to spook a skittish animal. “Martin. I know I haven’t given you a lot of reason to do so in the past couple of weeks, but...but I’m. I’m asking you to...you’re taking a big risk for me. I’m asking you to...to trust me.”

Martin stares at Jon blankly, the wild, mortified feeling settling into something quieter, more reverent.

Jon takes a deep breath, his eyes sliding downward to study his hands. “Even for just a moment, I’m asking you to trust me.”

What is Martin supposed to _say_ to that?

When he’d made the offer to go to the palace in Jon’s place, things like _trust_ or _reciprocation_ hadn’t even crossed Martin’s mind. He had seen how terrified and resigned Jon was, how determined Gerry was, and the words had been easy. They’d felt _right._ But now Jon is asking for Martin to trust him, and it feels important. It feels _special._

Trust isn’t always reciprocal, but Martin feels like this is.

“...yeah,” he manages finally. “Yeah.”

Jon smiles at him, a small, sweet thing that steals the air right from Martin’s lungs. Then he leans forward, pressing his long fingers to Martin’s temples. “Close your eyes.”

Martin nods, grimacing when he accidentally dislodges Jon’s fingers, and does as he’s told.

“I’ll guide you through it the first time,” Jon’s voice cuts through the darkness, low and warm and steadying. “It’ll be easier to do the second time.”

“Okay,” Martin whispers.

“There’s magic running through your veins,” Jon says, melodious. “It’s been there your whole life, even if you haven’t noticed it before. It...most people say that it feels warm. I’m going to make you aware of it.”

Martin doesn’t even get a chance to agree before he’s _gasping,_ his whole body lit from within by sensations as familiar as they are strange. His veins are thrumming like constellations in the sky, and there’s the taste of wind and sea on his tongue, and his skin feels too tight, like it’s trying to contain something it has no business holding. It’s overwhelming and terrifying and it feels so _right,_ so freeing, like something is finally slotting into place.

And it doesn’t _fade._ Or well—the intensity of it fades, but the sensations don’t, like background noises he hadn’t been aware of until someone had pointed them out. _This is my magic,_ he realizes, breathing deeply. _This is the shape of it._

He feels like he’s standing at a precipice, his heart in his throat as he looks into the swirling, uncertain darkness below, and oh, the exhilaration is _addictive._

When Martin’s breathing slows back to normal, Jon speaks again. “Good. You’re doing very well. That is your _passive_ magic. Now, focus on your eyes.”

Eager to grasp more of this strange, effervescent feeling, Martin concentrates very hard on the back of his eyelids, until sparks and static pop across his vision.

“Not...not so hard.” Jon sounds vaguely amused. “It’s easier if you relax a little bit? Good—yes, like that. There’s magic there, too. Good. Now just—it’s passive, and I’m going to make it _active._ Concentrate on how that feels, so you’ll be able to recreate it.”

Martin nods again, and then Jon just—he doesn’t know how to describe it. It feels like a candle has just been lit. It feels like he’s just sunk into a lukewarm bath of water. It’s—it’s _magical._

He takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes.

“Oh,” Martin whispers.

The room is shimmering like it’s been completely filled with light pouring through a stained glass window, clinging to every surface of the room. Things jump out of him as his eyes sweep around; the fire is a peculiar shade of gold, while the books are radiating a subdued forest green.

Jon and Gerry are by far the most interesting, however. Gerry is outlined with what appears to be bright, flickering flames that have no visible end. There’s some sort of glowing golden line drawn between him and Jon, strong and vibrant, like a ray of sunshine. There’s also an odd, neon green line connected to Jon’s chest that goes right into the castle’s wall, stretching to some unknown place.

“What do you see?”

Martin jumps, startled at the sound of Jon’s voice after being so entranced by the world around him. “Bonds, I think.” He studies the golden bond again. “What happens if I touch them?”

Gerry and Jon glance at each other. Gerry shrugs, and Jon blinks and cants his head to one side.

Then he turns back to Martin. “See and find out.”

Martin hesitates. While he _did_ just promise to trust Jon, he’s not stupid. “What do you think will happen?”

“Well.” Gerry shrugs again. “It’s...it’s kind of different for each person? Some people don’t feel anything. Some people can sort of immerse themself in the magic, and feel it really intensely? So…”

“Oh.” Well, that doesn’t sound _too_ terrible. Martin takes a deep breath, and carefully places his hand on the golden bond.

_Warmth_ and _ash on the tongue, smoke coating your throat_ and _trust_ and _love so deep and endless_ and _falling, falling, safety at the bottom even as you’re falling, falling, and—_

Martin pulls back, and he feels a tear slip down his cheek even before he registers that his vision has blurred. It’s partially the rush of the emotions, and partially that he’s never loved someone like Jon and Gerry love each other, and he feels so bereft and wanting that he’s almost helpless at it.

“Ooookay,” Gerry says, sounding vaguely alarmed. “That answers that. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Martin whispers, cuffing the tears away from his face, slowly coming back to himself now that he’s not at the center of their connection. “It’s—that was really beautiful. You two love each other very much.”

He knows it’s a mistake even as he says it.

Martin gets a split second look at Gerry’s face as it crumples like wet paper before he ducks his head, hiding his expression behind his hair. Jon glances at Gerry, his eyebrows pinching together worriedly, and then studies his hands, his lips pressed tightly together, eyes dark and sad.

Martin wishes that he could take it back, but it’s not like it was _untrue._ They do still love each other, even though Jon’s end of the bond is strange and muffled, like he’s perceiving it through a blanket.

A few awkward beats pass.

Then Gerry lets out a low, frustrated sound, and turns to Martin, no sign of his earlier distress on his face. “What else can you see?”

“W-Well,” Martin does his best to ignore the little frown on Jon’s face. “The books are all...dark green? That means the—the Beholding, doesn’t it? Which makes sense, I suppose. And the fire is all gold, but different from you and Jon’s bond, so I don’t _quite_ understand what that means, and…”

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. He glances down at his hands, and frowns when he sees a mix of Beholding green and a strange, subdued grey. The grey he understands—that’s obviously for the Lonely—but the green… “Why do I have—what’s—the green—?”

“That’ll be the Magnus Institute,” Jon says with a strange sort of confidence that has Martin blinking. “It’s Elias’ domain, and he’s saturated every branch with his magic. Every employee who’s worked there for more than six months is marked.”

“Oh,” Martin blinks. That...makes sense.

Then the strange, inexplicable conversation they’d had a few days ago replays in his mind. But...but _no,_ that’s not—

“Jon,” Martin says slowly.

“Yes, Martin?” Jon asks, his voice edged with nerves.

“A few days ago, you mentioned that you had worked at the Institute, and you sounded surprised that I was an assistant,” his mind is whirring even as he speaks, putting things together, making a whole, impossible picture. “Why did you _think_ that I’d been marked by the Beholding?” And then a breathtakingly obvious explanation pops into his head, so stunningly simple that it can’t _possibly_ be true. It can’t, except—“Did you think that I was working for _Elias?_ Is that why you were acting like—like that?”

Gerry’s eyes go so wide that it looks like they’re about to pop out of his head, and he quickly turns to Jon. Jon’s expression is frozen in a mask of casual apathy, except for his eyelids, which lower and raise again with glacial slowness.

Then Jon throws his hands into the air and bursts, “Well, what was I _supposed_ to think? You just showed up out of nowhere, marked by both the Beholding and the Lonely, which Elias _also_ has a connection with by the way, and—and, you know—”

“Oh my _god,”_ Martin wheezes, torn between laughing and shaking Jon until all the idiotic ideas fall out of his head. “I can’t believe that you thought—thought _I_ was—”

Gerry grins, leans over, and ruffles Jon’s hair. “Well, he knows better now. Right Jon?”

“Shut _up,”_ Jon grumbles, pushing Gerry’s hand away, his cheeks flushed.

“Anyway,” Martin shakes his head, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Thanks for the laugh, I guess. But I wanted to ask, what does the neon green mean?”

“The neon green?” Jon frowns. “What do you mean?”

The next few seconds happen very quickly.

Martin frowns and reaches toward the bright green bond, trying to indicate it to Jon.

Gerry, who hadn’t really been paying attention until that moment, suddenly lunges forward, arm outstretched, eyes wide.

The tip of Martin’s finger makes contact.

_Very, very far away, something large and old and incomprehensibly powerful wakes. It shifts, not in the physical sense but in a metaphorical sense, because there are a million human words and a million human ways to describe a Thing, an Activity, but none of them would fit, not for this. The not-motion is effortless despite its bulk, despite its weight, despite its depth. It is profound in a way that Martin doesn’t even know how to begin to make sense of, and he wants to shy away from it, but he’s frozen in place._

And then it turns its gaze upon him, and he is **_SEEN._ **

* * *

Martin sits outside at the booth, the sun warm on his face, except for where an icepack is laid over his eyes. He’d been told with extreme prejudice that he’s to keep his eyes closed and “to stay where we can keep an eye on you” for the next twenty-four hours.

He knows intellectually that he’s not being punished, but it still feels like it. How was _he_ supposed to know that because Jon’s curse was a product of the Beholding, that’s where the other end of it led? He supposes that he “should be grateful that your head didn’t explode”, as Gerry had so lovingly put it, but he’s not feeling very lucky, what with the blistering headache and the imposed restrictions on his daily activities.

Also, Jon seems torn between being guilty and berating Martin for putting himself in danger. He’d gently lead Martin down the stairs and into a chair that morning, his hand gentle and warm and steadying. He’d _then_ proceeded to snap that Martin had _better not move if he knows what’s good for him._

He’s pretty sure that his head wouldn’t have exploded. Not that he knows a lot about magic, but that’s not a thing that happens.

Regardless, he’s been sitting with Sasha and Jon all morning, the icepack over his eyes to soothe his headache. It’s better than lying in bed all day, he supposes. At least this way he can listen to Sasha and Jon talk with clients, which can get interesting if Jon picks a fight.

Martin lets out a low, tired sigh. Jon almost never picks a fight.

“How’s your head?” Sasha asks, her voice full of sympathy.

“Still attached to my neck,” he gripes, and then immediately regrets it. “Sorry, sorry. It’s feeling a lot better than yesterday.”

“That’s good.” Sasha is wonderful and lovely and, after being told how Martin had come to be in this state, hadn’t called him an idiot. He appreciates it. “Sorry that your first time Seeing was so stressful, though. They’re supposed to be fun.”

“It _was_ fun at first, though,” Martin says. “Until, you know. I looked a monster in the eye.”

He thinks that’s the worst of it, actually. He’s aware of his magic in a way he wasn’t before yesterday. He still remembers the sensation of activating the magic in his eyes, remembers the breathless joy at becoming aware of his wholeness. He knows he could See again on his own if only he hadn’t looked a creature in the eye that may as well have been a god.

He’s so frustrated at his own helplessness that he wants to scream.

Sasha hums sympathetically. “At least you got to take a look at the Beholding? That’s not a feat that many can claim.”

Martin stills.

There are holes burned into his eyes. He sees them even now, even as he stares into the seemingly endless dark that lives behind his eyelids. They’re empty— except he remembers the instant before Gerry had torn him away from the neon green curse, when _something had looked back._

He’s not sure if he will ever be rid of the memory of being completely, terrifyingly, utterly Known.

Jon, who’s been completely silent up until this point, finally speaks. “It’s not a feat that _anyone_ should have claim to. It was very dangerous.”

“Right,” Sasha says, sounding vaguely dubious. Martin keeps his mouth carefully shut, tacitly agreeing with Jon’s words. She sighs, and changes the subject. “Anyway. Jon, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“That mannequin. The curse on him is pretty powerful, right?” There’s the sound of fingers drumming rhythmically against the table, and the shifting of weight in a chair.

“Yes…” Jon sounds hesitant, but not actively opposed to where she’s leading the conversation.

“I was thinking that I’ve basically completed all of my research into truth serums, and need a new project. Do you think it would be worthwhile to try and break the curse on him?”

“Well, I mean,” Jon sounds surprised. “I—I definitely think that it wouldn’t be a _bad_ project. You’re welcome to do so if that’s what you want. I just—I don’t think that it will be very rewarding? I performed a diagnostic on it the other day, and it seems to be pretty complex. I think that one probably has to perform a very specific action to break it, although I have no idea _what_ that could possibly be…”

Martin’s head throbs, and he gives up trying to follow the conversation. He folds his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, letting Jon and Sasha’s chatter wash over him. The sun warms his skin, and the chair is far more comfortable than he originally thought that it would be...

What feels like seconds later, Martin is awoken to someone gently shaking his shoulder.

“Martin?” Jon whispers. “Martin, we’ve just finished up for today. Do you need anything? How’s your head?”

“Better,” he slurs, because it _is._ He just feels achingly tired, like he could slip back into the nebulous reality of sleep at any moment. “No...no need to fuss. I’m better, I promise.”

Jon lets out a quiet sigh. “You were very, very lucky. Here, let me help you back up the stairs.”

Before Martin can protest, Jon is wrapping one arm around his chest and lifting him to his feet. He follows the movement clumsily at first, still half-drunk with sleep, before his brain catches up and he forces his legs to move. After a few seconds of awkward fumbling, Martin is fully upright, Jon a warm and solid presence at his side.

“Thanks,” Martin mutters into Jon’s hair. It smells very nice. Fruity. Mango?

Jon sighs again, but it sounds less fretful than before. He sounds almost...fond. That’s probably wistful thinking, though.

“Of course,” he murmurs. “Is there anything that I can get for you? Are you thirsty?”

Martin shakes his head. “Jus’ want to sleep.”

“Okay,” Jon whispers.

The journey up the stairs is a blur. There’s a moment where Jon pauses and converses quietly with Gerry, but Martin’s head throbs and spins and he misses all of it. The next thing Martin knows, he’s being pushed back onto something soft and warm and familiar— _his bed,_ his brain tells him, and he sighs and curls up on top of the blankets.

Jon huffs. “Martin.”

Martin hums sleepily.

“Martin, at least let me take off your shoes.”

“‘Kay,” Martin sits up again, but it takes more effort than he expected it to.

There’s a barely-there pressure on Martin’s foot, and then a tugging sensation. When he reaches down to try and help Jon, he lets out an annoyed noise and shoves Martin’s hand away. It takes a bit of fumbling and some quiet cursing, but they eventually get Martin’s shoes off.

“Sleep well,” Jon says softly, his voice coming from some distant shore.

Martin hums, curling back up on the covers.

(The last thing he feels before he falls back into sleep is someone pulling a blanket up over his shoulders, and a hand gently pushing back his hair.

But maybe he was just imagining it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: ONCE AGAIN I HAVE PROVEN THAT I AM BOOBOO THE FOOL.
> 
> once again, im thrilled to link some absolutely wonderful art!
> 
> savvy-califragilistic made a HYSTERICAL meme image for jon's moving castle. the expressions were absolutely sending me.  
> [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/622632039635714048/jons-moving-castle-is-such-a-great-fic-this)
> 
> and ONCE MORE WE HAVE SOME LOVELY CALCIFER GERRY!! gosh i sure do love Illiched's design. he's so friendshaped i just want to hug him. also i love his hair  
> [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/622570532602298368/llliched-read-iceeckos12-fic-jons-moving)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings for Elias being manipulative and gross as usual. Feel free to message me if you want more details!!

The morning of the meeting with Elias, Martin stumbles downstairs to find Jon sitting on the edge of the hearth, Gerry half-out of the fire.

They’re talking quietly. Gerry looks uncharacteristically tired, his head not so much resting as supported by his hand, his burnt-orange eyes half-lidded. Even the fire is banked lower than it usually is, smoldering fitfully. Jon has one leg propped across the top of the stone hearth, the other a supporting balance on the floor, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he speaks.

Gerry says something that makes Jon bark an unexpected laugh. He gently tugs on a strand of Gerry’s hair, and the hearthkeeper grins and bats him away.

Martin watches the scene for a moment, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The easy back and forth is deceptive; there’s a sort of anticipation to the both of them, tensing their shoulders, lining their faces. He knows that Gerry is especially frustrated that they can’t take him with, and a simmering fear has taken up residence behind Jon’s eyes.

Martin decides that it’s time to announce his presence. “Good morning,” he says, smiling when Jon and Gerry turn to look at him.

“Morning,” Gerry says, waving lazily.

“You look awful,” Martin tells him, stopping at Jon’s side. He hesitates for a second, before impulsively nudging Jon’s shoulder with his. The smaller man shoots him a look of surprise, which melts into a frown that is just shy of a pout.

“I’ve spent the last few days enchanting your talisman,” Gerry grumps. “You’d look like shit too, you know. And speaking of, give me your hand.”

It’s a testament to how much Martin trusts Gerry that he doesn’t hesitate or question it, just reflexively holds out his hand. Gerry leans forward and drops something into his palm.

It’s what appears to be a circle of glass attached to the end of a chain; it’s hard and pleasantly warm to the touch. When Martin lifts it to the light, he can see that the three charms Jon bought at Melanie’s store are frozen within, the preserved petals breathtakingly vibrant. It looks as though it would shatter the second he dropped it, and he feels an instinctive swoop of terror in his stomach at the thought of breaking something so precious.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, carefully pulling the necklace around his neck and securing the clasp.

“You know what the charms are, of course,” Jon says, studying the talisman as he speaks, as though checking for any imperfections. “They’ve been set into a circle of hardened magic— _my_ magic—and then enchanted. I... _suppose_ it may be a little overkill for a thirty minute meeting, but you can never be too careful.”

Martin nods. “Thanks.”

“You should Look at it,” Gerry tells him, nodding toward the talisman.

He frowns, confused. “How do you mean?”

“You know,” Gerry gestures toward his face, as though that makes it any more clear. _“See.”_

_See?_ Martin repeats in his head, before the emphasis registers. “Oh! Oh, right.” He’s still getting used to the fact that he has magic that he can use, even if it’s in such a small way. He picks up the pendant and holds it up to his face, before closing his eyes and concentrating, reaching for that familiar sensation.

_The blooming sensation of stardust in his veins, the buzz of energy running through his blood, ash and wind and sea on the tongue, a curtain behind his eyes that he just needs—needs to_ lift—

He opens his eyes.

The world has gone hazy and golden again, the edges shimmering like the world is not quite real. He’s standing right in the middle of that cloud of flames that must be Gerry’s magic, but it’s warm and comforting, almost safe. The pendant in his hands is glowing a light green—not the neon green of the Beholding’s curse, but a more subdued color that must be unique to Jon. The talisman is further surrounded by a ring of golden fire, almost imperceptible considering that they’re standing right in the middle of Gerry’s seat of power.

When he purposefully touches the flames surrounding the talisman, he gasps at the surge of something companionable and protective that warms him right to his toes.

“Oh, Gerry,” he whispers, and desperately wishes that he could hug his dear friend.

Gerry settles his cheek back into the palm of his hand, looking tired and ridiculously pleased. “Anything for you, Martin.”

_“Anyway,”_ Jon interrupts, “Do you have everything else? Do you remember the plan?”

“I remember the plan,” Martin responds patiently, patting his breast pocket. “Do _you_ remember the plan?”

Jon scowls and tilts his chin up, expression vaguely offended. “Of course.”

“Then stop worrying,” he shoots back. “Trust me. Everything is going to be okay.”

“I—” Jon blinks rapidly, and then nods once, and then again, firmer this time. “Okay. Yes, of course. Sorry.”

“Good,” Martin says, trying to look confident and reassuring, as though he actually believes his own words. He turns to Gerry and gives him a shaky grin, trying to project an air of competency. “See you in a bit, Gerry.”

“Try not to get yourself killed,” the hearthkeeper responds, and slips back into the fire with a lazy wave.

Martin takes another slow, steadying breath, but is startled by a careful touch on his shoulder. He turns just in time to catch sight of Jon’s hand retreating to his side, his lips pressed together, jaw set.

“I’ll be right behind you, even if you won’t be able to see me,” he says quietly. “Even if you...no matter what. If you feel unsafe, just call, and I’ll come get you.”

He looks so earnest, so determined, that Martin’s throat clenches. _It’s remarkable how quickly he went from thinking I was an enemy to making promises regarding my safety._ It’s a glib thought, but he doesn’t think he can handle taking Jon seriously right now. The thought that Jon actually cares about him in some capacity is too big, too overwhelming, that he can’t help but shy away.

He’ll think about it later, when the meeting with Elias is done.

So instead of speaking he nods, tight and perfunctory. Jon nods in return and steps back, allowing Martin to take the lead as they head down the stairs together. Jon changes the circle to the blue segment and opens the door, and Martin steps out onto the main street of the capital.

The war has never been so obvious as it is now; lines of soldiers march up and down the cobblestones, their steps crisp and perfectly in unison. There’s an army recruitment poster on practically every wall, displaying both men and women proudly wearing the standard blue uniform. Martin reflexively ducks his head when a plane buzzes overhead, and every breath tastes foully of petrol.

He turns around, opening his mouth to ask a question, but pauses when he only sees their closed front door, Jon nowhere in sight.

“Right,” he murmurs, and turns back to the capital. He’s on his own for this bit.

The sun is high overhead but the temperature is comfortable, and there’s a fresh breeze blowing. Martin makes his way toward the shiny golden dome of the palace, periodically glancing behind him, trying to suss Jon out from the crowd. The wizard said that he would follow Martin discreetly in another form, but he never said _what…_

After about twenty minutes, he’s standing in front of the palace, looking up at the old, stately building. There’s the golden dome looming overhead, sat atop the main building, painted a deep blue, which looks to be three stories high. Two wings extend out from either side, decorated with windows set in white marble. The wings wrap around a cobblestone courtyard bustling with servants and soldiers, and a tall, pristine fountain sits in the middle, spouting water so clear that Martin could probably drink it right from the basin.

It is far, _far_ too opulent, and he instinctively straightens his back, trying to look important and not like his best pair of trousers are thinning at his knees and the inside of his thighs. He knows that it’s a ridiculous thought, but he can’t get rid of the sensation that everyone is staring at him, whispering about him.

He _swears_ that he sees something flutter in the corner of his eye, but when he turns to look, there’s nothing there.

_They’ve got better things to do than stare at a nervous man in a knit cardigan,_ he tells himself firmly, and forces himself onward.

There are two guards at the top of the stairs. One of them is wearing some sort of headscarf over her hair, her eyes dark and very focused. The other is markedly short, with cropped, sandy blond hair, and is looking at Martin as though he’s a stray animal who crawled in off the street.

“What’s your business here?” the one wearing the headscarf asks.

“Here for a meeting with the king’s advisor,” Martin responds as steadily as he can, handing her Elias’ summons.

The blonde one leans forward, bearing her teeth unsettlingly. There’s a deep scar cutting through her eyebrow, looking like it only just missed blinding her left eye. “You’re not Jonathan.”

Martin stares at her for a second, eyes wide, before averting his gaze to his shoes. There’s something deeply, incredibly disconcerting about this guard besides the sneer and the scar. Martin can’t put his finger on why, though. “I’m here _representing_ Jonathan,” he explains weakly.

“Hmmm,” the guard says, and to Martin’s horror, leans a little closer.

“Daisy,” the other guard snaps.

Her partner—and Daisy is certainly the _last_ name Martin would’ve ascribed to a person like this—huffs and sits backward, almost pouting. Martin breathes out slowly, unsure of when he started holding his breath.

“Someone will take you to see his Excellency. Please wait in the foyer,” the guard continues, her expression still carefully neutral. “Have a good day.”

“Thanks,” Martin responds, quickly folding up the letter and tucking it back into his pocket. He brushes his hand against the pendant sitting under his shirt as he walks through the doors, taking comfort from the warmth it still radiates, even this far away from the castle.

The foyer is just as resplendent as the palace’s exterior; the green walls are warmly lit by evenly spaced lamps topped with intricately embroidered lampshades, sitting on desks of dark wood. The panelling is decorated with fine, complex filigree that’s been carved to resemble spiraling fractals. Martin wanders along the edges of the room, touching the walls, examining the decorations, wondering when his escort will arrive.

“Jon?”

Martin jerks away from the wall, feeling like he’s just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His apology dies on his tongue when he spots the man standing in the doorway.

He’s of average height, but that is the only average thing about him. His skin is a dark, umber brown, and his long black hair has been tied back into dozens of elegant braids. There’s laugh lines around his mouth and his eyes, like he’s the sort of person who smiles frequently. He’s wearing a perfectly pressed blue button-up and a pair of smart black glasses, and a pen has been tucked behind his left ear.

Martin’s mind immediately goes blank. “Uh. I, um—”

“Oh,” the man frowns and gives Martin a long, slow onceover that makes him want to fix his rumpled collar and straighten his shoe laces. “My apologies, I was under the impression that Jonathan Sims was coming.”

“Nope!” Martin says, finally finding his voice, tugging self-consciously at the edge of his shirt. “I’m—I’m here on Jon’s behalf. He couldn’t make it.”

The frown quickly disappears, and the man smiles a warm, wide smile, and _oh yeah, that is a face made for smiling_. “I understand. Follow me then, please.”

“Okay.” Martin nods and swallows, trying to moisten his dry mouth, quickly walking through the door when the man holds it open for him.

“My name is Oliver Banks. I manage the finances within the palace,” Oliver tells him as they walk.

“Martin Blackwood,” Martin gets out, the nerves under his skin settling just enough for him to wonder, _Why is the royal accountant escorting me?_

“A pleasure, Mr. Blackwood. How is Jon doing?”

“Good,” Martin responds automatically, and finally registers the familiar way that Oliver is saying Jon’s name. He’s not sure why, but the thought of Jon and Oliver knowing each other makes him vaguely uncomfortable, like a vertebrae sitting just off center. “How do...how do you and Jon know each other…?”

“I was completing my apprenticeship the same time Jon was doing his. We mostly saw each other in passing, but I admired Jon’s drive and ability.” Oliver smiles faintly, eyes distant with reminiscence. “It’s a shame that Elias was so old-fashioned. I think Jon was a little bored, learning from him.”

_Jon was Elias’_ apprentice? Martin’s eyes widen as he slots this new piece of information into place. _What happened?_ He bites down on the question, though. As curious as he is, he’d feel strange invading Jon’s privacy without his permission.

Instead he asks, “What do you think of Elias?”

It’s only because he’s closely watching Oliver’s expression out of the corner of his eye that he notices the way it tightens subtly. He doesn’t give any of his discomfort away though, his voice carefully even as he says, “Elias is a clever strategist and a respected member of the royal court.”

That’s not much of an answer at all, but Martin lets it lie.

They walk in silence for a while after that, giving Martin time to examine the paintings on the walls, images of old royalty, images of famous—and infamous—people in their country’s history. They’re mostly uninterrupted by other people, except for the occasional servant or person dressed in fancy clothing. Martin avoids looking them in the eye, still feeling wildly out of place.

Finally, they stop by a set of double doors. Oliver reaches out to shake Martin’s hand, smiling congenially. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Martin.”

Martin takes the hand and is just opening his mouth to respond, when Oliver suddenly yanks on his arm, pulling him close. He’s so startled that he almost misses that Oliver is whispering in his ear, quiet enough that it’s almost inaudible.

“I came here today to help Jon, but it looks like he doesn’t need it. Be sure to remind him that he still has friends in the capital, and good luck.”

And then he pats Martin’s arm and steps back, smiling blithely, perfectly charming.

Martin rallies himself enough to give Oliver a shaky smile and a nod. “Thank—thank you. It was, um, nice meeting you as well.”

Oliver’s smile widens, and he turns crisply on his heel and disappears back down the hall. 

Martin turns to face the doors, frowning, a little disquieted by his conversation with Oliver.

Elias is dangerous, that much had been obvious from his conversation with Jon and Gerry. But knowing that there was disapproval of him within the palace itself, to the point where someone would try to intercept Jon before he met with Elias? It feels as though he’s just been slapped in the face with reality.

Maybe he didn’t take this seriously enough.

He dithers outside the door, hands fluttering, nerves coming back so fiercely that he almost feels like throwing up into the fake plant. Can he still turn around? Jon had said that if Martin needed help he would be there. There’s still time to back out. There’s still...still time to go back to safety. What is he _doing,_ risking his life for a man he barely knows?

_Even for just this moment, I am asking you to trust me._

Martin forces himself to stop shifting, to stop moving, to—to _stop._

Jon had asked Martin to trust him. It isn’t the sort of trust-fall that Martin has ever performed before though, because the other person trusts him in turn. That’s _terrifying,_ because what if Martin beaks that trust? More than that, what if he screws up trusting Jon in return? How can he hold something that fragile, that precious, and not shatter it?

If Martin calls for help, then Jon will come.

He takes a deep breath, and then another.

He doesn’t have to do this. If Martin calls for help, then Jon will come. He might be disappointed, he might get mad, but he _will_ come. He trusts that. He _has_ to trust that, because Jon trusts that Martin is going to help him.

Jon trusts that Martin is not going to run away.

Martin is _not_ going to run away.

Martin lifts his chin, and opens the door.

The meeting room is...nothing like Martin had been expecting. It’s a greenhouse, with a tall, soaring glass ceiling, and lush greenery that drips from the walls, snaking around the support beams high above. There’s the light odor of flowers, and the humidity sinks into his skin, clinging to the back of his throat. It should be pretty; it should be refreshing, to taste air this pure and clean after walking through the capital, but…

There’s a man staring out of the window.

Martin Blinks, and his eyes almost immediately start watering at the thickness of the Beholding green in the air. He turns off his Sight.

“Hello,” the man says, finally turning to look at Martin. His eyes are a deep, poisonous green, and his smile is pale, bloodless, and utterly insincere. “Martin Blackwood, was it? I was wondering where you’d run off to.”

_How does he—? No, I was an employee of the Institute. Of course he knows who I am. Don’t lose focus._

“I’m here on behalf of Jonathan Sims,” Martin begins, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck. “I come to—”

The man shifts, turning back to the window, lazy and unconcerned. The crisp fabric of his trousers scrape sharply against itself. “Ah yes, Jonathan. I had hoped that he would be over his little tantrum by now.”

_Don’t let him distract you. Don’t let him talk, that’s how he gets you._ His train of thought is spiraling, though, his brain growing distant and fuzzy. “I come to...to refuse—”

“I’m ever so grateful to you, you know, considering you were the one who led me right to him.”

Martin freezes.

No. _No,_ he couldn’t have. Could he have? Oh, but the _timing._ Why had Elias suddenly decided to contact Jon after years of silence?

Had Martin led Elias right to Jon?

No, _shit,_ that doesn’t matter right now. He can think about it later, he _can’t_ let Elias start talking—

“Sit down, Martin,” Elias says, his smile widening as the world fades a bit around the edges. “Can I call you Martin? I hope you don’t mind.”

Martin sits.

“I’m sure that Jon has told you a bit about me,” his voice is smooth, effortless, but every word pounds like a waterfall in Martin’s head, sweeping his thoughts away. “I was the first to recognize his talent, did you know? He came to the capital just _brimming_ with untapped potential, but no idea how to use it.”

The talisman at Martin’s throat starts to burn suddenly, and some of the dizziness fades.

Martin Blinks. Through the shimmering green fog, there are multitudes of threads surrounding Elias, drifting toward Martin. One of the threads is already wrapped around his throat. He’s not sure what to do about it. He’s not sure what _can_ be done about it.

“I helped him, of course,” Elias continues, clasping his hands behind his back, almost wandering in Martin’s direction. There’s too much purpose in his movements though, too much anticipation, like a cat savoring the terror of a trapped mouse. “All that power, but no direction, no _control._ I couldn’t just let all that talent go to waste. He has the potential to do so much good. It’s a shame that he balked at the final step. The war could use him. He could save so many lives.”

_I’m not some tool to be used to destroy other people._ Jon’s words echo high and harsh in Martin’s head.

He stares at the thread wrapped around his throat, forcing himself not to listen to Elias’ prattle. It’s nothing like the golden bond connecting Jon and Gerry, strong and gold and painfully bright. No, this is dim and thin, and…

Weak.

Weak enough for Martin to break?

He doesn’t know how, but he thinks that he might be desperate enough to try. If he listens to another second of this he might just start screaming.

“He ran, though,” Elias’ eyes are flinty and cruel. “He couldn’t handle that sometimes sacrifices must be made in the name of progress. It’s not too late, though.”

Martin blinks slowly, keeping the image of the thread in his mind. He feels the magic running through his body, tries to focus it into his hand, tries to will it to take the form that he wants. Another thread is drifting toward his forehead, but he ignores it. He needs to _focus._

He can do this. He _has_ to do this. He doesn’t have another choice.

“You have a way to bring him here, don’t you? Just call him for me, and—”

Martin slashes his hand through the air, cutting through the thread at his throat, the thread reaching for his forehead. He gasps, feeling as though he’s just surfaced from deep water, words bubbling up in his throat, bringing clarity to his mind once more.

“Stop _talking_ about him like that! _”_ Martin spits. Every word sounds like it’s been dragged over gravel, but he pushes through it, totters unsteadily to his feet. He made the mistake of letting Elias talk before, and he’s not about to do it again. “And on behalf of Jonathan Sims, I refuse the summons to the royal magical battalion.”

Elias stares at him for a moment. There’s no frustration in his gaze, no anger, just pure curiosity, as though Martin is a bug who has done something particularly interesting. Martin heaves for breath, supporting himself on the chair, his veins burning with something that very nearly tastes like triumph.

Whatever happens after this, he was able to help Jon.

“How unexpected,” Elias says, and lets out a put upon sigh. “I tried to be civil, you know? Tried to do it the easy way.”

Martin shifts uneasily, his confidence receding.

_He’ll receive you. You’ll tell him that Jon won’t fight in his war, and he’ll nod and listen politely. Then he’ll lay your darkest secrets to bear, and once you’re vulnerable he’ll steal your magic and kill you._

Here it comes.

But Elias turns and calls over his shoulder, “Peter, would you come here for a moment?”

Martin freezes, because—no, no, it can’t be. _It can’t be._

The air had been so humid that Martin hadn’t even noticed the fog swirling around them. But one second the space behind Elias is empty, and the next a tall, familiar, craggy-faced man is stepping from out of nowhere. He sticks his thumbs into his pockets, his eyes as cold and uncaring as Martin remembers.

“Oh, I remember you,” Peter says, giving Martin a long, slow onceover. “That curse barely needed any encouragement to take.”

Martin stumbles backward, but his knees run into the seat of the chair, causing him to tumble into a sitting position. His limbs feel like they’ve been stuffed full of ice, and the fog is so thick that he can’t quite tell its source.

“He’s outlasted his usefulness,” Elias tells the man, looking away disinterestedly. “He’s all yours.”

There’s a flutter out of the corner of Martin’s eye. He doesn’t dare turn to look at it, his eyes fixed on Lukas’, terrified.

And then, there is something blocking his vision, something big and grey, that rains shimmering dust like ash.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon’s voice says.

_“Peter!”_ Elias calls, his voice laced with urgency.

And then the world bursts into flames.

Martin flinches away from it, covering his face with his hands. _Oh god, oh no, oh god, we’re done for. This is it._

It takes him a couple of seconds to realize that there’s no heat, no pain. He takes one steadying breath, and then another, and finally looks up.

The big, grey thing blocking Martin’s vision is an enormous _moth’s_ wing. It flutters back and forth, and Martin stares at it, entranced by the brown and gold eye-shaped designs that pattern its surface. The source of those two wings are a brown jacket, and wearing that brown jacket is—

_Jon._

Jon’s feet are braced against the ground as hot fire pours from his hands, scorching the place where Elias used to stand. Sweat rolls down the side of his neck, and even as Martin watches neon green eyes flicker across his skin.

“When I say, grab onto me!” Jon shouts.

Martin jumps to his feet, his heart pounding in his throat—

The doors to the greenhouse slam open, and the sandy-haired guard from earlier spills through, her lips pulled into a snarl. She takes in the scene, her eyes going from the raging flames to Jon to Martin, and then pulls out a knife and _lunges._

Martin flinches backward—

There’s a shout, then a yelp, and then nothing.

When he looks up again, there’s a small, sandy-haired dog curled up on the ground. Jon’s hand is extended in the direction of the dog, and his mouth is pulled into a small, frustrated frown.

“Well, that was very exciting,” Elias says. “But I think that I’m done with this game.”

Martin whips around to look at the royal advisor. His hand is wrapped around Peter’s elbow, and he’s up to his knees in fog so thick it looks almost opaque. The ground beneath his feet is charred and sooty where Jon’s Desolation magic had touched it—did Peter help him escape somehow—?

Some instinct tells Martin to Blink, so he does.

Elias’ green threads are wrapping around _Jon’s curse,_ thickening it, turning it darker and deeper. The bonds haven’t reached Jon’s chest yet, but they’re mere seconds away from doing so, and Jon is standing very still, unmoving—

Without thinking, Martin reaches forward and slashes his hand through the threads. They cut easily, drifting to the ground like spiderwebs loose in the wind. The talisman sitting above Martin’s sternum burns like a hot flame.

Jon shakes his head. _“Now!”_

And then he flips both palms so they’re facing upward, and lifts them toward the ceiling.

For a second nothing happens; Martin is just standing there, clutching onto Jon’s waist, and Elias and Peter are staring at them, grim with anticipation. Jon’s arms are shaking, though, and Martin turns to look at him, frowning—

The tile _cracks._

That is all the warning that they get before the earth _explodes_ beneath Elias and Peter’s feet, chewing through the marble floor. Dirt and plants mingle together as the earth rises, raining a combination of dust and organic detritus, and the ground shakes violently. If he hadn’t been holding onto Jon, he surely would have fallen.

The wall of earth forms a great maw, and crashes down over Elias and Peter, swallowing them up.

Jon turns and folds Martin to him, one arm over his head, the other around his back, and then they’re lifting up, _up_ toward the glass ceiling, trailing shimmering dust behind them. Martin shuts his eyes to keep himself from being overcome with vertigo, hiding his face in the junction of Jon’s neck and shoulder. He can scarcely breathe.

“Don’t let go,” he thinks he hears Jon say.

He squeezes Jon tighter, and just in time—there’s the sound of shattering glass, and a deep shudder runs between the two of them. They hover weightlessly for a split second, the world going strange around the edges, before pushing off again, high into the sky. The air tastes of petrol again, but it’s a welcome scent—it means that they’ve cleared the palace.

“Martin!” Jon calls.

Martin doesn’t dare raise his head. “Yes, Jon?”

“Have you ever flown a flyer before?”

He feels a little thrill of incredulity. Flyers are small, one-man aircraft, and _of course he’s never flown one before._ “What—why—don’t you _dare_ put me on one of those things, Jonathan Sims!”

“Sorry,” Jon says.

Before Martin can shout another word, he’s carefully being lowered into a seat. He clings to Jon, terrified to let go when they’re this high off the ground, but the other man gently and skillfully extricates himself from Martin’s grip, leaving him perched precariously—as expected—on top of a flyer.

“It’s easy,” Jon tells him. “Just push the yoke to go down, pull it to go up. Right to go right, left to go left. The talisman will take you home. I need to shake off these guards, okay?”

Martin looks up, fully prepared to tell Jon off for leaving him—but then the man’s face registers, and the words die in his throat.

There’s bloody cuts all over Jon’s face and arms, presumably from breaking the glass ceiling from earlier. The lines around his eyes are tight, his mouth pulled into a tense, unhappy grimace. He looks _exhausted,_ and a bit dazed _._

He’d shattered the marble floor beneath their feet. He’d sent white-hot flames toward Elias. He’d broken through the glass ceiling of the greenhouse. How much strength does he have left?

“Don’t leave,” Martin says, grabbing Jon’s sleeve. “It’s not safe.”

Jon gives him a quick smile that feels like a punch to the gut, and waves his hand in the direction of the flyer. An eye opens high on his cheekbone, and then he carefully puts Martin’s hands on the yoke. “You have a half hour of invisibility. I’ll meet you at home, okay?”

_“Jon!”_ Martin screams—

But Jon’s already tipping backward, over the side of the flyer and out of sight. Martin watches him go, watches him flap open his wings and catch the wind, watches him tumble through the air, back toward the enemy flyers.

He briefly shuts his eyes. His flyer dips, and his stomach swoops up into his throat.

_“Dammit,”_ he mutters, pulling the talisman out from under his shirt and facing forward again. He turns on his Sight, and sure enough sees a golden bond, limned with fire, stretching off into the distance.

* * *

He’s just cleared the edges of the capital when he hears the growl.

He whips around, almost upending the flyer with the force of his alarm. Once he’s finally able to stabilize, he turns again, this time more cautiously.

There’s a small, sandy blonde dog sitting in the back of the plane. It’s tense as a bowstring, its eyes wide with fright, hackles raised and scruff puffed out. He stares at it, stunned. “How did you…?”

And then he remembers the guard that Jon had turned into a dog. She must have...must have chomped onto his ankle or something as they made their escape. _Yikes._

He faces forward again, blinking hard into the middle distance. It’s not—it’s not like he can turn _around,_ and dropping a tiny dog in the middle of a forest full of predators? He’s not a murderer _._ He would turn her back into a human, but he wouldn’t even know where to _start._

Maybe...maybe Gerry will know what to do.

He hunkers down over the yoke and shivers into the wind, and continues to follow the talisman home.

* * *

The castle is just coming into view when Martin remembers that he doesn’t know how to land this stupid thing.

Martin circles around the castle a few times, staring hard at the buttons and levers on the flyer, but—but dammit, his fingers are so cold that they feel like they’re about to fall off, and he’s been hunched over for the past two hours, and he just wants to go home.

He takes a deep breath, sets his jaw, and proceeds to crash the flyer right into the mouth of the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _End of Act I._
> 
> edit: i am so, so sorry, i completely forgot to add that people had drawn fanart again. if youve drawn fanart and you see that ive forgotten to link it, please let me know!!
> 
> zannolin CONTINUES to draw wonderful gerrys, his smug expression is exactly how i imagined it and i love him SO SO MUCH HE'S SO PRETTY!!!  
> [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/622756300499124224/zannolin-messy-and-absolutely-not-finished-at)
> 
> and we ALSO have this lovely picture by akanarazu of gerry braiding jon's hair!! it's very sweet and domestic, which is the vibe that they deserve  
> [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/622803509451096064/akanarazu-my-fav-scene-from-this-howls-moving)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some warnings: neither gerry nor martin are in a particularly good headspace at the beginning of the chapter. they're both really worried for jon. martin is blaming himself for jon being missing, and gerry does something which could be interpreted as a suicide attempt (he moves to leave the castle to look for Jon, which would kill him). if you have any more questions please feel free to dm/message me! stay safe y'all!
> 
> also, wanted to make this explicit in the notes: gerry and jon are in a queerplatonic relationship, and gerry tries to explain that to martin in this chapter. he doesn't have the word for it, but that _is_ what it is.

It’s been three long hours since Martin crashed his flyer into the castle. Three hours since Gerry spilled from the fireplace, disoriented at having been awoken so quickly from sleep, eyes wide and alarmed. Three hours since Martin pulled himself from the rubble of his impromptu crash landing, shaking bits of castle from his hair and clothes. Three hours since they locked the guard-turned-dog into Martin’s room, to handle when Jon got back.

Three hours since Martin had to explain to Gerry what had happened to Jon.

(Three hours since Gerry’s face had gone slack with shock and horror, before crumpling like paper.)

He’s cleaned himself up in the meantime. Taken a bath, applied salve and bandages to the cuts he’d gotten in the crash, of which there were blessedly few. He and Gerry are now sitting next to each other, Gerry on the edge of the hearth, Martin on the floor, a cup of tea in his hands. He wishes he could do more, but Jon still hasn’t returned, and he doesn’t think there’s a thing in this world that can assuage Gerry’s worry.

Martin keeps replaying those last few seconds with Jon—the ragged exhaustion on his face, the cuts, the resignation. Was there something that he could’ve done better? Was there something that he could’ve done to change the outcome of his meeting with Elias? He doesn’t know, and now Jon is gone, and he might be hurt—what if he gets captured and taken back to the palace, _what if—_

Martin shakes himself. Jon’s situation is firmly out of his control. Gerry, however...

The fire roars higher than it normally does, and Gerry is bent over his legs, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hair a dark curtain hiding his face. His hands are twisted in his lap so tight that the knuckles have gone white, and his jaw is pulled tense like a taut bowstring. Martin had tried to make him tea as well, but the second he’d pressed the mug into Gerry’s hands the liquid started boiling, rendering it undrinkable. Gerry hadn’t even seemed to notice.

He wishes he knew what to do. He’s paralyzed by his own helplessness; words seem cheap, and the only action he’d taken had been worse than useless. He’s never seen Gerry like this before. Worried yes; afraid for Jon, yes; but this level of sheer panic is something he never would have anticipated from the normally unshakable man.

(He wishes that Jon was here. Jon would know what to do. It’s his _fault_ that Jon isn’t here, he should’ve—well.)

It’s because Martin is dozing lightly against the stone, exhausted from the day’s events, that he almost misses when Gerry slips from the edge of the hearth to the floor. He jerks out of his distraction, rubbing his eyes as he watches the other man cross the floor, heading toward the—

“Gerry, no!” Martin shouts, scrambling to his feet, forcing himself between Gerry and the stairs. “Gerry, Gerry—”

“Out of my way,” Gerry says, voice low and dark, sending a shiver down Martin’s spine.

“You said it was _suicide_ for you to leave the castle!” his voice is an octave higher than it should be, but he can’t bring himself to care. “What’ll happen if Jon gets back and finds you dead?”

Gerry’s shoulders tense, his eyes going hot and blue. “He _needs_ me. He could be—”

He abruptly breaks off and whips around, striding back to the fire, leaning over the hearth. Martin watches as the grey stone beneath his hand begins to glow a dull red, the heat radiating in visible, distorted waves. The room is so hot that he can feel sweat trickling down the inside of his shirt.

“Gerry,” Martin whispers.

Gerry rocks backward, and the ground beneath his feet is blackening, smoke wisping into the air. He takes a deep breath, then another, and pulls himself into the fire, the edges of his form melting into the bright blue flames, swallowing him whole.

Martin watches the stone cool down, fade to its normal, dull grey. There are the imprints of Gerry’s hands left behind, and he has to stop himself from reaching out, running his fingers over the divots. It’s too hot to sit comfortably anywhere near the fire, so he slowly lowers himself to the floor.

“Jon is strong,” Martin offers, trying to sound confident. “He’s probably fine.”

“I _know_ he is,” Gerry snaps, and then falls silent. After a moment, he repeats in a far steadier tone, “I know that Jon is strong. I just wish that I’d been there.”

Martin winces, feeling hot shame rise up in his stomach. Gerry isn’t saying anything, _wouldn’t_ say anything, but he can feel the implication that things would have gone better if he had been there rather than Martin.

“Yeah,” he whispers, throat dry.

They sit like that for a moment, the only sound the low, continuous crackle of the fire. The silence is almost unbearable, but Martin has no idea what to say. He casts about—words of reassurance? Try to make him laugh?

(Jon would know what to say.)

There’s only one thing that comes to mind right now. “Tell me about Jon.”

Gerry doesn’t say anything, and for a moment Martin thinks that he’s not going to answer. Then a suggestion of a face emerges from the fire, flames lapping over his cheekbones, his jaw, his eyes. “...what do you want to know?”

Martin shrugs. “Anything you want.” Anything to get him talking, to take his mind off of worrying.

Gerry frowns, considering that. Then he sighs and emerges to his shoulders, his expression no longer quite so angry, the flames no longer so blue. He just looks tired now, like he’s resigned himself to his own helplessness. “Martin, you don’t...I shouldn’t have done that. You don’t have to...I’m not going to be very good company right now. You should probably go upstairs.”

Martin is shaking his head before Gerry’s even finished speaking. “I can go upstairs and we can be miserable separately, or we can be miserable together.”

Gerry lets out a choked laugh. He scrubs his hand over his cheek and lets his face rest in the palm of his hand, eyes unfocused. Martin can’t get a read on what he’s thinking.

Finally, he shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Martin blinks. He hadn’t _actually_ expected for that to work. But—but why wouldn’t it have worked? Gerry’s not like his mum, who’s turned the act of ignoring Martin, of turning his attempts to comfort into a way to hurt, into an art.

He scrambles to his feet and approaches the fire, checking the temperature of the stones before clambering up, pushing his back up against the wall and folding his arms around his bent knees. He holds his breath while Gerry collects his thoughts, chewing on his lip.

Finally, Gerry sighs and says, “Did you know that I taught Jon how to do magic?”

Martin vaguely recalls Gerry saying that he taught Jon how to See, but that was the extent of it. “Really?”

Gerry nods. “I did. He must have been...eight? Around that old. In retrospect he was too young, but I was too excited at being able to share magic with someone else that I just...I didn’t think about it.”

“What age do people typically learn?” Martin asks, curious as ever about magic.

(He carefully files away the fact that Jon and Gerry have apparently known each other for most of their lives.)

“I’ve heard that most...most _people_ start around ten or eleven.” Gerry scratches his nose. “Two years doesn’t sound like a lot, but the younger you teach someone, the...the more instinctual? Wild? The magic is. The natural laws of magic apply in different ways. If you start young, you’re reinforcing one set of laws over another.”

“Oh.” the words make sense, but Martin has no way to decipher the meaning. Maybe...maybe he means that if someone starts earlier, they can learn all fourteen affinities, rather than only one? Children’s personalities and behaviors are more malleable, mercurial. But why would that make one set of laws apply over the other? More than that, what even _are_ the two sets of laws?

Gerry gives him a wry look. “You can ask Jon about it after...after he gets back. He’d be happy to tell you. He’s much more interested in the theory than I am.”

 _After he gets back._ Martin bites his lip and nods.

“Anyway, he was an _awful_ student. I mean, to anyone else he probably would’ve been an excellent student. He was always good about seeing the contradictions in something.” Gerry laughs, shakes his head. “I was all instinct though, and I couldn’t answer any of his more technical questions. We used to drive each other crazy.”

Martin tips his head back against the stone behind him, letting Gerry’s words wash over him.

“He was brilliant though, you know? He was much smarter than I was. He mastered what I taught him through sheer determination, even though it probably...probably should have been impossible.”

There’s a pause.

“He’s always been good at doing the impossible.” Gerry’s voice cracks on the last word.

Martin’s eyes fly open. _Is he crying?_ He didn’t even realize that fires could cry. _What is he supposed to do if Gerry is crying?_

But when he looks over, Gerry’s face is dry. His eyes are very focused on the cobblestones in front of him, and the fire has gone so cool that it’s more black than red now, but he’s not crying.

Martin almost thinks that it would be better if Gerry were crying.

He leans forward into his knees, loosely folding his fingers together. There’s a question that he wants to ask, but he’s not sure that it would be welcome right now, with things the way that they are. But…

If not now, then when?

“Gerry,” Martin begins, then pauses to wet his lips. “Gerry, can I ask you a question?”

Gerry lets out a snort devoid of any humor. “Go ahead.”

“What...what exactly _are_ you and Jon to each other?”

He’s been thinking about it for several days now, ever since he felt the bond that lay between them. He’s not exactly experienced when it comes to romance—or even close friends—but he’d only ever expected that sort of intensity of emotion in a romantic connection. He doesn’t _think_ it was romantic, though, not in the conventional sense.

He’s...honestly not sure what to make of it.

Gerry drifts closer to Martin, and the fire grows a bit redder, the wood popping quietly. Luckily he looks more thoughtful than offended, which is—a little weird, because if he’s known Jon for as long as he says he has, shouldn’t this be easy to answer?

“I love him,” Gerry says at length. “It’s as you said. I love him, and he loves me.”

Martin waits patiently for Gerry to continue, because he recognizes the look of a person who’s gathering the scattered threads of a hundred different thoughts, and putting them into one cohesive narrative.

“We don’t...we don’t, you know, it’s not like we’re in...it’s not physical, but I can’t imagine being with anyone else the way I am with him.” Gerry shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair, visibly frustrated. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Try?” Martin asks, and has to put his feet on the floor and sit upright so that Gerry can lean against the edge of the hearth. He’s relieved to see that the flames are burning higher, almost back to normal, and the heat warms him right down to his toes.

Gerry breathes out through his nose. “Have you ever loved someone for so long that you’ve forgotten any other way to be? It’s like...it’s like you’ve been breathing fresh air, and then one day you look around and realize that everyone else has been breathing underwater. It’s just the way that you _are._ Our lives being intertwined, it’s just...it’s a given at this point.”

And Martin...doesn’t really understand that. He doesn’t think that it’s something he’s going to understand, either. What he _does_ know is that Jon and Gerry love each other in some capacity, and saying otherwise would be ludicrous.

“Okay,” Martin says. “Thank you for telling me.”

Gerry looks relieved at the easy acceptance, and simply nods in return.

They sit in silence for a moment, still worried, but no longer so anxious. Martin stares absently into the fire, his head feeling strangely muffled, like he’s trying to think through cotton. He knows that it’s a result of how exhausted he is, but it doesn’t make it any easier. He’s not planning on going to sleep though, not while Jon’s whereabouts are still uncertain.

“What about you?” he asks at length, rubbing grit from the corners of his eyes. “How did you start learning magic?”

“I didn’t,” Gerry sounds unconcerned, almost flippant. “I was born into it.”

Martin pauses in the middle of scratching at the side of his nose and glances at Gerry. The hearthkeeper watches him steadily, one eyebrow raised. It’s almost a...a _challenging_ expression, like Gerry is daring him to dig deeper.

But wait. What _does_ he know about Gerry?

Martin knows that he’s powerful, and that he used to love flying. He’s cursed, and somehow he can see that Martin is cursed even when Jon and Sasha can’t. More than that, now that Martin knows a little bit more about magic, he’s beginning to understand how _weird_ Gerry’s is. He can use the fourteen affinities like Jon can, but his magic has a fundamental connection to fire that seems to go beyond the curse.

In short, there’s a lot that just...doesn’t add up.

Martin opens his mouth—

Gerry’s eyes go wide. His head jerks toward the door, and the flames roar so high and so hot that Martin has to shove to the floor to avoid getting burned. _“Jon.”_

And then he’s scrambling over the edge of the hearth and down the stairs so quickly that he trails flames and bits of burned wood in his wake. Martin follows, pausing only to stamp out the still smoldering detritus before it has a chance to catch.

Gerry flings open the front door—

And Jon, bleeding and bruised but _alive,_ topples inside.

* * *

Jon wakes slowly.

The first thing that he is aware of is warmth suffusing his whole body, his limbs boneless. Even the space where his heart lays, which is a cold, distant star on the best of days, is buzzing with happy contentment. He feels like he could go right back to sleep like this, back into restful slumber. And he probably would’ve, if he hadn’t shifted slightly.

His whole body flares with pain, his wounds all clamoring for his attention at once. He lets out a groan, tugging his legs toward his chest, but that only serves to make it worse.

“Hey,” a gentle voice says, and then a familiar hand passes over his brow, curling his bangs behind his ear. “Don’t move.”

Jon’s eyes flutter open.

He’s lying on the floor in front of the hearth. Blankets have laid out under and over him, and pillows have been stuffed under his head, back, and knees. _Martin most likely,_ he thinks, and feels himself redden at the thought.

Gerry is watching him from the fire, his expression strangely unreadable. Jon opens his mouth to ask a question—but then he registers that there’s a giant hole in the side of the castle where there _definitely_ wasn’t before, and forgets everything he was _going_ to say in favor of, “What the hell happened?”

Gerry snorts and drops to the floor, sitting cross-legged next to him. “You never taught Martin how to _stop,_ you know.”

“I— _what?”_ Jon shakes his head, and starts the arduous process of pushing himself upright. He gets a couple of inches off the ground before Gerry’s hand is at his elbow, supporting him as he struggles into a sitting position. “What do you mean?”

“Martin crashed the flyer into the side of the castle,” Gerry explains, voice carefully light, carefully neutral.

“Is he okay?”

“Is that _really_ the question you should be asking right now?”

Jon is so startled by the anger in Gerry’s voice that he immediately shuts his mouth.

The hearthkeeper lets out a long, frustrated sigh and pushes his hair away from his face. “Yes, Martin is fine. A little banged up, but...fine. He’s fine.”

Jon swallows, suddenly and viscerally aware of the fact that he is in trouble. “I, uh...I see.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

“Okay,” Jon sighs and turns to face Gerry. “Let’s hear it.”

“How could you be so _reckless?”_ Gerry snaps, the fire roaring into life, deepening the shadows on his face. “Martin told me what happened, how you—how you risked yourself, how you—you can’t _do_ that, Jon! I won’t lose you to Elias, not after everything. _Promise_ me you won’t do that again.”

“What would you have had me do?” Jon shakes his head tiredly, rubbing his aching shoulder. “Let Martin die?”

“Of course not.” the fire intensifies, then subdues again, then intensifies again. “Of course not.”

Jon reaches out, takes Gerry’s hand. The hearthkeeper looks at their intertwined grip, and the helplessness on his face makes the space where his heart should be ache. Five years ago he would’ve been sympathetic, and while he can no longer feel the sentiment, he knows how to imitate it. “I’m sorry, Gerry. I know you were scared, but…” he spreads his free arm in a _see?_ gesture. “We both survived.”

“Just because you survived doesn’t make it okay, and I’m still mad at you,” Gerry retorts, but there’s no fight in it. He shuffles closer and brushes his thumb over the back of Jon’s knuckles, the touch leaving trails of warmth in its wake.

Jon sighs, leaning his head against Gerry’s shoulder, practically melting against him. His exhaustion is pulling at the corners of his mind again, and he shuts his eyes, basking in the warmth that radiates from his oldest and closest friend. Gerry lays his hand on Jon’s back, and he can feel the magic that radiates from his palm, soothing his injuries. It would be so easy to fall asleep like this.

But...but no. He’s slept enough, and besides. There’s something he needs to ask Gerry about.

He takes a deep breath and pushes away, putting some distance between the two of them. He keeps his grip on Gerry’s hand, though, not quite willing to dispense himself of that comfort. “Gerry, I have to ask.”

“Hm?”

“Martin.” he wets his lips, brings Peter Lukas’ words to mind. “He’s...he’s cursed.”

Gerry’s face goes blank for a second—before bleeding into relief. “I—yeah. Yes. It’s the kind he can’t talk about, it’s the kind that _neither_ of us can talk about. I would have— _we_ would have told you if we’d been able to.”

Jon nods. He’d expected as much. “It was Peter Lukas. That’s—that’s why he’s touched by the Lonely. It’s because Peter Lukas cursed him. And I—he was an assistant in Ilar.”

Gerry frowns at him, uncomprehending. “...yes?”

 _“Gerry.”_ Jon runs his suddenly shaky hands through his hair. “Martin was cursed by Peter Lukas and came to the castle mere _days_ before I noticed that _he_ had vanished. That’s far, that’s far too much of—that can’t be a coincidence, you see? It can’t.”

Gerry stares at Jon, his face slack. He sees the moment that realization strikes though, because Gerry’s eyes go wide, and he recoils slightly. “You don’t—you don’t think that _Martin_ is—?”

“It makes _sense!_ I, I, I rescued _him_ from Elias’ monsters, and then—what if Elias sent Peter to interrogate him? And if Martin refused to talk, then it would make sense for Peter to have cursed him, only—only he came to us instead. And when Martin was—he told Peter and Elias off, see, but when he did his face, it, it _transformed,_ and he looked...” _dark ginger curls, honey-brown eyes, freckles covering his face and nose, jaw set—_ “...like _him.”_

They fall silent for a moment, considering that.

“Jon, I swear that I didn’t know that they were the same person,” Gerry looks genuinely chagrined. “I could—I can see that he’s important somehow, that he has some role to play, but I didn’t know how. You know that I would’ve told you.”

“I know,” Jon waves the apology away. “No harm done. In fact, it worked out better than I could’ve hoped for.”

Gerry nods, relieved, and they lapse back into silence.

He really does mean it, that things have worked out better than he ever could have hoped for. Martin is the person he’s been looking for all this time, and he came to the castle of his own volition—well, because of a curse, but still. And he seems to have forgiven Jon for being suspicious and rude when they first met, and—Jon doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but it seems like he’s enjoying his time here.

 _Jon’s_ certainly enjoying having Martin here. Martin is...nice, and he helped Jon with Elias. So maybe Jon almost died, but he _didn’t._ They’re all alive, they’re all okay, and that’s…that’s not an outcome he anticipated, not after going head to head with Elias and the royal magical battalion.

“Where _is_ Martin, by the way?”

“Outside doing laundry with Sasha and the mannequin.”

Jon squints at Gerry incredulously, his pensive mood unceremoniously derailed. “I’m sorry, what?”

Gerry laughs quiet, amused huffs that die before they can escape his throat. “Martin visited Sasha to tell her she had the day off again, and mentioned that he was going to do laundry today. Sasha volunteered to help.”

Jon scowls. “Help me up.”

Gerry shuffles into a more supportive position, and together they manage to get Jon balanced on his still unsteady legs. Gerry keeps one arm wrapped around his waist as they hobble down the stairs together, but even so, Jon has to bite his lip to keep from groaning at the way each movement jostles his injuries.

Gerry opens the front door, and Jon steps out onto the platform at the base of the castle.

It’s a gorgeous day; the sun is at its apex in the cloudless blue sky, but the breeze takes the edge off of the heat. The smell of warm grass and wildflowers is so strong he can practically taste it on his tongue, and the lake near the house is rippling with insects and fat, quicksilver fish.

Martin and Sasha are standing in the grass at the base of the castle. Martin is wearing a sleeveless shirt that displays the freckles that spatter his arms, while Sasha’s hair is encircled by a blue and white flower crown. They’re both shouting at the mannequin, who’s clambered on top of the castle, and is now being directed to tie the laundry line he took up with him to one of the balconies.

“To your left!” Sasha calls. The mannequin tilts his head and starts shuffling in one direction, and Martin doubles over, laughing. “Your—your _other_ left!”

“Stop!” Martin shouts, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Now that Jon’s looking for it, he can see the honey-brown tint in his otherwise indistinct gaze. “That’s good enough! Come down!”

The mannequin salutes, ties off the line, and starts climbing back down. Martin and Sasha turn to the laundry basket sitting behind them and start pulling the wet clothes out so they can hang them up.

“Martin!” Jon calls. “Sasha!”

Sasha stumbles around, her mouth rounded in a surprised, perfect _o._ Martin turns away from the binder he’d been pinning up, and a smile breaks like a sunrise across his face. “Jon! You’re awake!”

Jon smiles awkwardly, and shifts so that he’s no longer leaning all of his weight against the stair railing as they approach. Even if they didn’t share a bond, he would be able to feel the amusement radiating from behind him. “I—yeah. Good to be up.”

He’s so distracted by Gerry’s mirth and the way Martin is smiling prettily as he approaches that he is _completely_ unprepared for the jab Martin levels at his shoulder. It’s a light one, but it startles Jon so much that he rocks back on his heels.

“Promise me you won’t _ever_ do that again,” Martin says, still beaming. “Okay?”

“Uh—” Jon shoots a befuddled look toward Sasha, but she only smiles back, her expression almost indulgent.

And then a warm, firm hand is taking his, and Jon looks up into Martin’s face, at the earnest burn of emotion in his eyes. “Promise me, Jon.”

“I’d do it again.” the words come out absently, distantly. Too small, not _enough._

_“Jon—”_

“If it meant keeping you safe.”

And now they’re both staring at each other, Martin slack jawed, blinking rapidly, Jon feeling strangely vulnerable, strangely raw, like an open-ended nerve. For a moment the breeze and the sun sparkling off of the water and the neverending sky fades _,_ and it’s just the two of them, standing breathless before the plunge. What plunge, and where they are falling to, Jon has no idea.

Then Sasha clears her throat and says, “While that’s sweet and all, should you really be standing up for this long?” and the moment is broken.

“I—no,” Jon pulls his hand from Martin’s, his cheeks oddly warm. “No, I—I should probably sit down.”

Martin lets out a fretful noise. “Here, sit on the front step. Do you need anything? Something to drink?”

“I can make you a flower crown if you like,” Sasha pipes up, touching the one currently woven artfully through her curls. The mannequin, who made it to the ground a few seconds ago, reaches up and touches the pink and gold flower crown that he’s wearing as well.

“I want one,” Gerry says, sounding disappointed. Jon turns to see him leaning against the doorframe, mock-pouting. Then the pout melts into something more thoughtful, and he reaches up and touches his hair—and then a crown of brilliant gold, orange, and red flames shaped into flowers curls around his head. “There. How does it look?”

Sasha looks delighted. “Oh, that’s pretty!”

“Alright,” Jon mutters, trying not to let on how much he wants a flower crown of his own. They really _are_ quite charming. “Make me one, if you must.”

Sasha nods, and nudges the mannequin in the side. “Race you to pick the best ones.”

The mannequin whacks her on the shoulder, and then they’re running full pelt into the nearby meadow. Jon watches them go, bemused at their energy.

“How do you feel about mushroom soup, Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon turns to look at Martin, frowning. Then the question registers. “Oh—um, yeah. That sounds, that sounds nice. Good.”

The answer is somewhat lackluster, but it still elicits a wide smile from Martin. “I’m going mushroom hunting, then. Gerry, I expect you to keep an eye on him, okay?”

“Anything for you, Martin,” Gerry says amiably. Jon can’t even work up the frustration to get annoyed at them for the babysitting. “See you.”

They watch Martin go, watch his broad shoulders fade into the distance, occasionally stopping to stoop over. Jon shuffles backward until he’s leaning against the wall next to the doorframe, closer to Gerry. Nearby, Sasha can be heard yelling at the mannequin, but it sounds playful rather than angry.

The breeze ruffles his hair.

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Jon doesn’t look up, just folds his knees and nods into them. “It feels like a dream.”

The flower crowns, the idyllic scenery, the way Martin smiles at him _—_ it’s too much. It doesn’t feel real. These sorts of things—they don’t _happen_ to him.

A warm, familiar hand cards through his hair, and he turns into it. “It’s a good dream though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Jon whispers, letting his eyes slip shut. Even if this isn’t real, even if this is only a temporary respite, then he’s going to enjoy it. He’s going to hold on as long as he can. “Yeah.”

* * *

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on his back as he chops up the mushrooms, but it no longer feels so off putting. He knows that it’s not a judgemental or malicious stare, now. Just...Jon observing, as he is wont to do. It almost feels nice to have his attention like this, actually. Cozy.

“So, Jon, what’re you going to do about the guard?” Gerry asks, apropo of nothing.

Martin can hear the frown in Jon’s voice when he says, “What guard?”

“The guard you turned into a dog,” Martin explains patiently, scooping up a handful of mushrooms and putting them in the bowl beside him. “She’s in the room upstairs.”

“I—no. What?” Jon sounds incredulous, and Martin grins despite himself. “She followed you _home?”_

“She did.We’ve been, you know, taking care of her and stuff, but obviously we can’t keep her here forever.”

 _“Ugh.”_ Martin finally glances over his shoulder and catches Jon running his fingers through his hair (though he’s careful to avoid his baby’s breath and dandelion flower crown) brows furrowed in frustration. “I—dammit. We can’t let her go back to Elias, she’ll tell him where we are. We can’t just release her into the Wastes, either. She’ll _die.”_

“I mean we _could,”_ Gerry points out mildly, apparently still feeling a bit mean about the whole ‘attacking Jon’ thing.

Jon huffs. “But we won’t. Anyway, I just...I don’t—Martin, do you want any help?”

Martin has been letting Jon’s words wash over him as he chops, taking them in without really paying attention, so the query goes unnoticed at first. When he finally registers what he’s just been asked, however, he’s so surprised that he almost slices his hand. He turns around to find Jon staring at him with big, dark, expectant eyes. “I—I’m sorry?”

“I mean—” Jon shifts, flushing. “I—I used to help my gran out in the kitchen, I—you don’t have to do all the work by yourself, I, I’d like to help if—”

“Yeah, of course!” bemused as he is, Martin quickly gathers up the onions and the garlic that’d been sitting on the table next to him. He hadn’t thought that Jon could cook at all considering the state of his cupboards when they’d first met. “Here, why don’t you—just chop the onions and mince the garlic, here’s a knife—”

“Thanks,” Jon says, and takes the knife, the vegetables, and the extra cutting board to the edge of the hearth. Every movement of the knife is slow and deliberate, precise in a way that feels uniquely Jon-like, and after a few seconds Martin relaxes and turns back to the mushrooms. “Anyway, I guess I’ll talk to the guard tomorrow, try to—try to reason with her. Maybe we can work something out.”

“She’s one of Elias’. I doubt she’ll be easy to reason with,” Gerry points out.

Jon hums in agreement but says nothing more, instead continuing to carefully chop uniform pieces of onion.

Together they finish preparing the rest of the meal. It’s obviously been some time since Jon cooked with someone, but he falls back into the rhythm of it easily. Martin wonders what cooking with his gran was like, if she was just as focused and deliberate as he is, if they stared intently at the simmering soup in the same way, as though daring it to try and go awry. He bites down on the questions though, worried that if he draws attention to it Jon will clam up, and Martin doesn’t want that. It’s enough that Jon has volunteered what little information that he has.

Thirty minutes later and Martin is finally dishing out the fragrant, creamy soup. He braces himself for Gerry to knock it back again, but is pleasantly surprised when he sits on the edge of the hearth, the bowl in one hand, a spoon in the other.

“We ought to fix the castle when we’re finished eating, by the way,” Gerry tells Jon. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a change.”

Jon glances toward the gaping maw that was once the far wall and winces, adjusting his drooping flower crown. “I—yeah, that sounds good.’

“How will you do that?” Martin asks curiously, sopping up some soup with a bit of sourdough bread.

Jon opens his mouth to answer, then pauses and shoots Gerry a sideways glance, who smiles a slow, mischievous smile in response. Jon shuts his mouth, turns to Martin, and says, _“Magic.”_

Martin scowls and shakes his soup spoon at them. “You two are _insufferable.”_

Jon and Gerry only smirk at that, like twin cats that have just eaten the canary, and Martin is half exasperated, half fond.

They quickly finish eating, Martin almost giddy with excitement at the thought of seeing more magic. Jon gathers their bowls and sets them on the side of the sink, and then he and Martin clear away the carpets and the table, leaving an empty space on the hardwood floor. Gerry helps where he can, though he’s careful not to touch the more flammable objects for too long.

“Right,” Jon guides Martin to the edge of the hearth. “Stand back.”

Martin gets a sudden thrill of nerves. Not that he doesn’t trust them, but the last time they told him ‘wait and find out’, he stared into the face of a very powerful magical entity. “Is it dangerous?”

“Very,” Gerry says, the same time Jon says, “Not at all.”

“Gerry!” Jon swats his shoulder, aghast.

Gerry holds up his hands to fend off the attack, laughing. “Alright, alright! It’s safe, it’s safe.”

Martin laughs and relaxes, leaning more comfortably against the hearth. “Go on, then.”

Jon lets out another good-natured grumble, but then Gerry is taking his hands, guiding him into the center of the room. Once they’re standing across from each other Jon closes his eyes, and for a moment there is only silence, only the hush of the two of them breathing, and Martin can’t help but hold his breath in anticipation—

The first neon eye opens on Jon’s neck, and then his forearm, and then they’re coming more frequently, casting the room in a strange green light. The whole castle groans like it’s about to collapse, but the two at the center of it all don’t seem to notice. The air around Gerry begins to shimmer and then glow, like a fire radiating visible heat—

The gaping hole slowly begins to close, the bricks and the floorboards laying themselves out almost faster than Martin can keep track of. There’s a groan from the kitchen, and when Martin jerks around to look, the counters and the cupboards are extending, and the whole room seems to be more spacious.

There’s one last crash as the bricks finally close up, and it’s so quiet you can hear the sound of dust and dirt trickling to the ground. Jon and Gerry remain in the center of the room for a second longer, breathing hard, their eyes closed, heads tilted together.

And then, finally, Jon takes a deep breath and looks up, and Gerry sighs tiredly, and Martin feels like he can breathe again.

“I’m going to sleep for a bit,” Gerry mutters, shoving Jon’s hands away and crawling sluggishly back into the fire. “That’s exhausting.”

“And _amazing,”_ Martin shakes his head and pushes away from the hearth and jogs into the kitchen. He runs his fingers over the grain of the countertops, marveling at the size of the cupboards. “This kitchen has so much _room—”_

“That’s not the best part,” Jon interjects, and Martin almost jumps at how close he’d gotten without him noticing. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Martin’s not really sure what could be better than one of the nicest kitchens he’s ever seen, but he gamely follows Jon across the room and down the stairs. Jon begins turning the circle over the door, and Martin squints when he realizes that there’s five segments now.

He doesn’t have to wonder about it for long, though, because Jon has turned the circle to the new, yellow segment, and is already stepping through the open door. Martin takes a deep breath and follows.

He almost doesn’t recognize where he is at first, it’s been so long. But then Jon turns around, fixing Martin with a painfully open, hopeful look, and he gets an odd feeling of deja vu, because he _knows_ these chairs, he knows that couch. He knows the cramped kitchen, the tiny wood-burning stove in the corner, the one that he used to light in the winter when it got especially cold. He knows these walls, and sure enough there’s a bedroom on the far right wall, and—

“Jon,” he breathes. “Jon, this is my house.”

Jon bites his lip and twists his fingers together anxiously. “Is...is it okay? I hope you didn’t want that cupboard, I, I just thought—”

Martin steps forward, and there’s only one thought in his mind. He stretches his arms out at his sides and says, “Jon, can I—”

That’s all the invitation Jon needs before he’s across the room and folding himself in Martin’s embrace, tucking his face into Martin’s shoulder. He’s all sharp angles and hard lines, but it doesn’t matter, because he fits just as perfectly as Martin imagined he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also! PLEASE look at this fanart that possumsquat made it's SO SO SO PRETTY!!! and the I spy joke is hilarious i love it so much  
> [link](https://possumsquat.tumblr.com/post/624364373716172800/galaxy-brain-ass-howls-moving-castle-au-im)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter:
> 
> I do get a little bit more into martin's headspace and what he thinks about his mother. He belittles himself and excuses her neglectful/verbally abusive behavior. it's kind of present throughout the whole chapter, so just shoot me a message if you want a more in depth explanation

_Dear son,_

Martin stares blankly at the first line of the letter, uncomprehending. Individually he knows what the words mean; to be _dear_ is to be cherished, to be a _son_ is to be someone’s child. He also knows what they mean in conjunction; _dear_ _son_ is a common way to address a letter to someone, and implies some sort of affection for the person in question.

Context, however, turns the words incomprehensible.

The last time he spoke to his mother in person, she refused to look at his face, simply stating that he was growing to resemble his father more and more every day. Her words had been cold and devoid of any familiarity, as though she were speaking to a stranger off the street rather than her own flesh and blood. Martin had left the care home with a devastated lump in his throat and color high on his cheeks, and had only barely managed to convince himself that it was the illness talking.

He hasn’t been able to bring himself to return since, but—

_Dear son,_

What does that mean? Does it mean that she has found it in her to forgive him for not inheriting her face? Does it mean that she has missed him in his absence? Does it mean that the next time he visits, she will greet him with something other than hostility?

Or maybe he’s reading too much into it. Maybe it means nothing, and is just what it is: a common way to address a letter to someone.

She has never called him son before, though.

He sets the letter down on his kitchen table and rubs his face, knowing without looking that fog is beginning to creep around his feet. Even _he_ knows that this line of thought is a dangerous one, a spiraling one, that is liable to linger in his thoughts like a miasma if he lets it. And he doesn’t _want_ to let it. He told himself that he would stop taking her accusations and insults to heart, because otherwise it would hurt too badly. She doesn’t mean it, after all. She loves him, he _knows_ she does, her illness is just taxing on her, and...

He should...he should stop thinking about this. More than that he should _read the letter,_ which will probably shed some light on the intent of the first line.

He doesn’t want to, though. He doesn’t want to have gotten his hopes up after reading the first line only to find out that she’s finally disowned him, or something. As long as he doesn’t read the rest of the letter, he can pretend that it was a nice one, a forgiving one, one that spoke of reconciliation.

He picks up the letter again, turns it over in his hands, biting his lip. Unexpectedly, he finds himself wanting to go back into the castle and talk to Gerry or Jon about it, which is...no. He’s never sought advice regarding his mother before. He’s always felt that it was too personal, something to be dealt with on his own. Why should this be any different?

He sets the letter down again and pushes his hair back from his forehead, yanking hard on his curls. He just—he doesn’t know what to _do._ She’s never been consistent in her behavior; an action that elicits a small, wan smile one day will evoke a screaming rage the next. Trying to figure out some sort of pattern is liable to drive him mad.

And now, this. _Dear son._ Like she is familiar with Martin, like she _knows_ him in any capacity, and he’s frustrated, almost _angry_ about that. He knows he shouldn’t be, but he wants to throw this letter in her face and ask where she has been hiding her _‘dear son’_ all these years.

That’s not fair. He knows it’s not fair. He shouldn’t—she loves him, but she’s ill, and he can be so clumsily overbearing...

He can’t read this right now. He can’t read this and be _detached._ He needs to build his armor back up, to let the fog dissipate before it devours him whole.

It’s with this thought that he gets up, tucks the letter into his pocket, and sweeps back into the castle, shutting the door behind him. Gerry still hasn’t woken up yet, so it’s still quiet, the fire burning low and subdued in the hearth. Martin trails his fingers briefly along the stones as he heads upstairs to the study, where he’d slept last night because the guard was still in his room.

He’s decided that even though he can technically go back to his own house, he’s going to stay in the castle for as long as Jon will let him. He likes having his hometown so close by of course, but it also feels distant, like a life someone else was living. Even if Elias wasn’t in the picture, he wouldn’t go back to the Institute even if his curse _was_ lifted. He likes being here too much to entertain the thought of returning to a job he found miserable and unsatisfying.

He hasn’t talked to Jon or Gerry about it yet, though. He hopes that they won’t mind.

As he’s tucking the letter underneath the pillow, the door at the end of the hall, the one Martin still has yet to see inside, creaks open. There’s a knock on the doorframe a couple of seconds later, and Martin looks up to find Jon standing there. He’s wearing a sunny yellow cardigan and a plain white skirt that swishes gently around his ankles, and when their gazes meet his smile is small and hesitant.

“Morning,” Jon says. “You were up early.”

Martin nervously clears his throat and stares very hard at his pillow, giving it a fluff for good measure. “Just, um. Checking the mail at my house.”

Jon hums in acknowledgement, shifting his weight from one side to the other. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then shuts it and shakes his head, his expression crumpling with frustration. “I’m going to go wake Gerry up. We should really get this whole... _guard_ thing handled. I’ve left it alone for too long as it is.”

“Sure,” Martin says, nodding his head. And then because he has no filter and is an _idiot,_ he bursts out, “You look very nice today, Jon.”

“Oh.” Jon’s face darkens, and he tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. There’s a bright golden ribbon tied around his wrist. “I, um...thank you.”

Martin nods brusquely, and then turns back to the pillow to hide the way his own face is turning a bright, obvious red. It’s not like it’s untrue _._ Jon always looks gorgeous, but he looks especially so now. Yellow is a nice color on him—but then again, _every_ color is a nice color on him, and _he would like his brain to shut up now._

By the time Martin gets downstairs, Gerry is already up and applying himself to Jon’s hair, the castle merrily chugging away in the background. He’s seated on the edge of the hearth, Jon planted firmly between his knees, a look of intense concentration on his face.

“I want to get this taken care of quickly,” Jon says grimly, though it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s letting Gerry manhandle him. “I don’t like the idea of one of the royal guards hanging around here for too long.”

“There’s no guarantee that Elias hasn’t put some sort of tracking or monitoring spell on her,” Gerry agrees, carefully looping the golden ribbon through and around Jon’s hair to hold it in place.

Martin frowns, alarmed by the thought. “Has he been spying on us?”

Gerry immediately shakes his head. “Nah, I warded the room. Nothing—person, magic, sound, whatever—is getting out.”

“Oh,” he subsides, mollified. “Good.”

Gerry ties one last knot of the ribbon before releasing Jon and pushing to the ground. “Just because she can’t report back to Elias doesn’t mean that we want her here. Her presence is enough of an ill omen as it is.”

_Because Elias hasn’t been able to find Jon until now,_ he recalls. And then, _Elias said that it was my fault._

Should he tell them? Keeping it from them feels dishonest, but...but Jon was in the room with them. Does he already know?

But Gerry and Jon are already heading up the stairs, and the moment to speak has passed. Martin bites his lip and sighs harshly through his nose, before following after. He’ll...bring it up later.

Jon doesn’t hesitate; as soon as they’re all gathered around the door, he takes a deep breath and shoves inside. There’s a short, dangerous sort of growl that transforms almost immediately into a yelp, and when Martin peers inside the blonde woman is sitting on the floor, her hands and legs bound tightly together by some invisible, magical force.

Gerry and Martin settle on either side of the doorframe. Gerry’s fingers drum against his arm, and every movement sends a shower of sparks through the air. Martin takes a deep breath and turns on his Sight, settling easily into the new frame of reference. The invisible restraints on her limbs turn a sort of strange, opalescent color, which implies the Spiral, which—are they an illusion which Jon has convinced her are _real?_

“Jonathan Sims,” the guard growls.

Martin has forgotten how cool and inscrutable Jon can be when he wants to be. His face a blank mien, he shifts his weight from one side to the other, dropping a hand casually to his hip. “You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” she snaps. “I don’t bargain with _criminals.”_

“Oh, is that what they’re calling me these days?” his voice is as mild as a spring day.

“Her name is Daisy,” Martin volunteers before he can think better of it.

Jon takes the interjection in stride. “Nice to meet you, Daisy. If you don’t mind my asking, what crimes have I committed?”

“Does it matter?” she snaps. “The taboos are all the same, no matter which one you’ve broken.”

It’s an innocuous enough statement. He’s never heard of any sort of magical taboos, but it would make sense, considering that Jon had once said that certain actions would be a perversion of what magic was supposed to be. Considering Jon’s reaction to the idea, the likelihood of him ever committing one of these taboos is low.

But for the first time, Jon’s composure breaks. His breathing stutters and his eyes go wide and his hand skitters in a reflexive, nervous motion that he can’t immediately suppress. And Gerry—

All the warning that Martin gets is a sudden, terrifying rush of heat, and a glimpse of bright blue.

“How _dare_ you,” Gerry’s voice is low and angry. “How—”

“Gerry,” Jon says, extending a quelling hand. Whatever insult Daisy leveled against him, he’s already suppressed his reaction to it.

Gerry looks to Jon, then Daisy, then up at Jon again, mutinous and righteous in his anger. He takes a deep breath, then another—and then the bright blue subsides to a stuttering yellow. He leans back against the door, gaze furious and intent on Daisy.

“I can let you leave,” Jon tells her quietly. “If you take part in a binding which prevents you from willingly giving Elias information regarding our location, or leading him here, or any variations thereupon.”

“I don’t bargain with criminals,” Daisy repeats, lifting her chin defiantly, her green eyes full of steel.

Jon sighs in a very putupon manner. “Right then.” Then he waves his hand, and Daisy is shrinking back down, back into that little sandy dog. Martin watches Jon’s dark green magic weave about her, turning that strange, sickly yellow color that indicates the Stranger. “You’re free to explore the castle, although if you try to hurt anyone or escape you’ll be deposited directly back into this room.”

And then he turns on his heel and leaves in a swirl of skirt and yellow ribbon, his face carefully impassive, as though he’s unconcerned about how the meeting ended. Gerry shoots Daisy a narrow-eyed glare before shaking his head and trailing after Jon, tucking his thumbs into his pockets as he goes.

Martin lingers for a moment, looking at her. Remembers how things were when he first came to the castle, and how they are now.

“Neither of them will hurt you,” Martin tells her quietly. She’s probably scared, even though she’s too tough to show it. Then he hurries down the stairs, leaving the door open behind him.

“—more than disrespectful, it’s downright _insulting,”_ Gerry is saying bitterly as Martin comes within hearing range. “Anyone who knows anything would know how ludicrous an accusation like that is.”

“Regardless of whether or not people think it’s true, an accusation is enough to warrant investigation,” Jon goes to run his hand through his hair, pauses as though remembering the complicated bun it’s been folded into, and twists his fingers together instead. “I’d wondered what explanation Elias gave as to why I never completed my apprenticeship. I’m not sure if knowing is better or worse.”

“Oliver seemed to think that you were innocent,” Martin can’t help but point out. “Or at least that the charge was suspicious enough to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“True,” Jon acknowledges thoughtfully. “I didn’t realize I’d made such an impression on the man.”

“Yeah, well.” Martin shakes his head. “Anyway. What’re the taboos?”

“I—” Jon blinks in surprise at the question, winces, and then turns and grimaces at Gerry. “How long until we open?”

Gerry briefly closes his eyes. “You have a half hour.”

“I guess that’s enough time for an introduction.” Jon sighs. “It’s a more complicated topic than one would think, so we’ll have to save the full explanation for later. Gerry, you can jump in whenever you wish.”

Martin brightens, pleased that Jon is planning for there to _be_ a later. Not that he doubted that Jon would teach him magic, just...it’s nice that he’s taking initiative. It feels less like a favor, and more like something that Jon _wants_ to do, something to be shared.

“I can get some dining chairs from my house if we don’t want to sit on the hearth,” Martin offers. Not that he doesn’t like sitting on the hearth, but it can get uncomfortably warm sometimes, and there’s no back support besides.

“Oh.” Jon blinks a couple of times in surprise, and then his expression morphs into something more thoughtful. “That would be good.”

Five minutes later they’re seated across from each other, close enough to the hearth that Gerry can still comfortably participate. Martin has his notepad again, pen poised to take notes, while Jon is leaning one elbow casually on the edge of the cobblestones.

“So,” Martin says, looking up encouragingly. “The taboos?”

“Taboos are simply that: magical actions which go against the natural law of magic. There are the natural ones, and then the ones which are written into human law.” Jon frowns as he says that last bit. “The ones which are written into law...well, they’re not all necessarily _accurate._ Some taboos were articulated simply because the people responsible for recording them found them distasteful; some have been warped beyond their original intent.

“Something that you must keep in mind is that contrary to what Daisy said, the taboos affect people in different ways. They’re _not_ all the same. True taboos generally have some sort of negative impact on the person who attempted to cast it. The most common result is extreme magical backlash, where the caster is harmed by the spell they were attempting to cast, regardless of whether or not it was a harmful spell. There are more and less severe results, but the most common is backlash.”

Martin frowns and looks up from his frantic, scribbled notes. “So, someone with good intentions could commit a taboo?”

“Absolutely,” Jon nods grimly. “The worst are often committed by those who think that they have some noble justification for doing so.”

“Oh.” Martin stares down at his notes. “I see. So what _are_ they?”

“Depends on the person,” Gerry glances at Jon, who gives him a _go ahead_ motion. “For a regular magic user, they’re pretty simple. Stick to your affinity, don’t use more magic than you have. Don’t steal magic from other people. They’re not connected to natural magic the same way that magical creatures are, so they don’t have the same restrictions.

“On the other hand, magical creatures can use all fourteen affinities, but are actually _incapable_ of committing a taboo,” Gerry folds his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers on his sleeve. “It’s against their very nature to do so. If they ever tried, they’d just...die outright, actually. It’s why humans can kill magical creatures—humans have less restrictions, and they can afford to _break_ those restrictions.”

“Not to say that humans can’t learn some tricks from magical creatures, though,” Jon adds. “Magical creatures can gift humans with certain abilities, connect them to the natural world. Phoenixes created the first Seers, or people who can see the strings of fate. The armored beasts in the southern deserts gifted powerless humans the ability to repel magic, to better protect themselves. Stuff like that.”

Gerry nods. “Someone like Jon though, who started learning magic young and was therefore able to tap into the natural form of magic like a creature can—he’s in a more delicate position. He’s not like other human magic users, but he’s not like a magical creature, either. Like a human, he can’t steal magic from others. Like a creature, he can use all fourteen affinities, but he can’t do anything to upset the natural balance. Unlike a creature he can break a taboo, but if he _did_ then his magic would react badly. It wouldn’t kill him, but it wouldn’t be pretty.”

“Which is why it’s so ridiculous that I’ve been accused of breaking a taboo,” Jon grits out, bunching up handfuls of his skirt. “The consequences would be far, far too high.”

Martin’s head is spinning from the amount of information that they’re giving him. He’s relieved that Jon is planning for there to be a more in-depth explanation at a later date. He pulls himself together enough to ask, “What—what do you mean _use more magic than you have?”_

Jon is the one who responds to that question. “Every human has a set amount of magic, although that doesn’t necessarily indicate skill level. People who can use what little magic they have in efficient, creative ways are far more dangerous than those who have a lot but just throw it around without thinking. But...I digress. The point is, once a human uses up their magic, that’s it. They have to rest. If they try to draw upon the magic around them, they’ll burn up their magic system.”

Martin rubs his wrist, thinking about the magical veins that run through him, imagines them going white-hot with pain. It sounds horrifying. “And...what’s the natural balance?”

Jon’s mouth twists into a scowl, and beside him, Gerry flops over the side of the hearth, chuckling.

“What?” he asks, glancing between the two of them.

“Jon would kill for that answer,” Gerry says, grinning lazily. “It’s—there’s a way that magic thinks the world should be, and if you try to change it, then...good luck to you, I guess.”

“As far as I can tell,” Jon interjects, glaring at the hearthkeeper, “living things are supposed to live, and they are supposed to die. They have a role to play, and avoiding that role brings fate like a hammer on your head. There are others, but no one knows what they are.”

“That seems...arbitrary.”

“Frustratingly so.”

“Anyway, Jon,” Gerry says, shaking his head. “Time’s up. You have to meet Sasha in two minutes.”

“Seriously?” Jon scowls.

“I have so many _questions,”_ Martin mutters, staring down at his notes, which are jumbled and disjointed.

“Gerry is an adequate teacher,” Jon says, getting to his feet and brushing invisible dust off of his skirt. “He knows as much as I, if not more.”

“Normally I’d be happy to claim that I know more than you, but in this case it’s probably not true,” Gerry responds dryly, though there’s a note of discomfort in his voice. “You’ve done a lot more research into the theory than I have.”

“It’ll depend on what questions Martin has,” Jon hedges, unwilling to concede the point. “There are certain areas where you are far more knowledgeable than I.”

“I’m going to go get Sasha,” Martin says, because whenever they get into one of their not-quite-arguments they forget that the rest of the world still exists.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says.

Sasha is as punctual as ever, which is not unusual. What _is_ unusual is that the mannequin is wearing something other than his military uniform. The black trousers and short-sleeved green button-down isn’t a bad combination; it’s just weird to see him in something new.

“I like the new look,” Martin informs the mannequin as he and Sasha head inside.

“I thought it was a bad idea for him to be wandering around town wearing a Strangia uniform,” Sasha explains. “Plus, it’s boring to wear the same thing every day.”

The mannequin nods vigorously at this, and Martin laughs. “That makes sense. Any luck on breaking the curse?”

She scowls, and he knows without her saying a word that the answer is going to be negative. “No. Jon was right, the curse is ridiculous. I don’t even know where to start, if I’m being honest.”

The mannequin shrugs and pats Sasha’s arm, and she gives him a strained but genuine smile. Martin’s just glad that they seem to be getting along so well.

As he steps onto the first floor, his gaze just so happens to pass over the stairs leading up to the second. He does a double take, and meets the dark, wary gaze of a small, sandy brown dog huddled on the top step. They stare at each other for a second, frozen in place, before Daisy lets out a low, unhappy growl and disappears into the darkness.

* * *

Later that night, Martin digs his fingers into a ball of bread dough, trying not to think.

It’s been a strange day. Not a bad one, per se, but just...weird. His mother’s letter has been burning a hole in his brain, and Daisy had repetitively traced the edges of the room with her feet, watching them closely. Gerry had answered further questions regarding magical taboo to the best of his ability, which had been quite nice of him, but it hadn’t been enough to completely dispel the strange cloud of _something_ hanging over his head. Anticipation, maybe? Fear?

He sighs, pausing in the middle of his ministrations, the dough warm and supple and smelling of rosemary. He wants to beat it until it comes apart. He wants to curl up next to the fire and let Gerry’s voice lull him into a drowse. He wants to know what the letter says without actually having read the letter. He wants to _be_ without thinking.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

He’s been still for too long. Gerry, who’s been observing him from the edge of the fire, creeps forward onto the hearth, concern creasing his brow. “Martin, are you okay?”

“Fine,” he responds reflexively, dropping his gaze to the dough and applying himself to it with new fervor. “It’s nothing.”

Gerry doesn’t look convinced, slipping to his feet and coming to stand next to Martin. Jon, who’s been untangling the skeins of yarn Martin had found in the corner, frowns and looks up. “You don’t look fine.”

“I just—” he looks up, a lie on his tongue, and pauses at the steady, gentle concern in those burnt orange eyes. He sighs and looks away, quietly resigned to the fact that he cannot be anything but truthful in the face of such earnest worry. “...I’d rather not talk about it right now.”

“Okay,” Gerry says, unconcerned by his reticence.

“Why don’t you let me take over the dough?” Jon asks, already getting to his feet. “Sit down for a minute.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Martin shakes his head, frustrated. They have enough to worry about without his baggage.

But Gerry is ushering Martin toward one of the chairs, guiding him without actually touching him, and Jon is poking the dough, checking to see how close it is to being done. He considers pushing back, getting angry, but the thought is so exhausting that he lets it go. He doesn’t want to argue with them, not when they’re so visibly fretful over his wellbeing.

“Do you want some tea?” Gerry asks as Martin sinks into the chair. “You drink tea when you’re stressed, right?”

He’s not sure whether he’s alarmed or intrigued by the idea of Gerry making tea. The man loves food, sure, but he tends to have some very strange ideas about how it’s meant to be made. Curiosity wins out, though. “Sure, please.”

Gerry makes a beeline for the kitchen area, leaving him to sit back in his chair and stare at Jon. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his cardigan to his elbows to keep them from getting any dough on him, and his forearms are lightly muscled, flexing with each repetitive movement. A couple of strands of hair have slipped out of his bun, softening the stark, elegant lines of his face, making him look endearingly sweet.

Jon had fit so perfectly in his arms.

_Hey now,_ he tells himself firmly, forcing his gaze down and away. His face is far too warm, and he keeps his eyes carefully averted until Gerry comes back and shoves a steaming mug of dark liquid into his hands.

“Here you go,” Gerry says cheerfully.

“Thanks.” He surreptitiously takes a sniff, trying to determine whether or not it’s drinkable. It’s probably not poisoned, at least.

Then he glances up into Gerry’s expectant face, mentally sighs, and takes a sip. It’s not horrible, but he _did_ scald the tea leaves, making it far too bitter. He forces himself to smile. “It’s good.”

The white lie is completely worth it for the way Gerry’s face lights up. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon smirking at the bread, like he knows that Martin’s biting down on the truth.

Eager to get the focus off of Gerry’s frankly terrible tea, Martin turns to Jon and says, “You said that your gran taught you how to cook, didn’t you?”

Jon pauses in the middle of his kneading, his face going blank as he stares down at his hands, calloused and covered in flour. Belatedly Martin realizes that he knows next to nothing about the woman, and maybe reminding Jon of her memory might not be a good idea—

Jon starts kneading again, slower and more deliberate than before, his face smoothing into neutrality. “She did. She was exceptional at it.”

“Huh.” Martin turns his mug around in his hands.

Unexpectedly Jon keeps talking, staring very hard into the dough as he works it into shape. “Her and I were never very close. She took me in after my parents died, but I don’t think she quite knew what to _do_ with me. When it was time to make dinner, though, she used to—to set me on the counter next to her and talk me through each recipe. When I got old enough, she even let me help.”

Martin swallows, feeling the fragile tension in the air, liable to shatter. There’s a wrong thing to say here, a wrong way to go about this, but he doesn’t know what it is, and that scares him more than anything else. 

“Why did you stop?” he asks.

Jon’s hand jerks upward in an achingly familiar gesture, and then falls. “I…once I was…” he glances sideways at Martin, his lips tilting into a small, self-deprecating smile. “It was what I used to do to remember her by. But then when I—when I was...the gesture became meaningless. Apathetic. I couldn’t, I...” He stops. Takes a deep breath, as though steadying himself.

“It’s okay, Jon,” Martin tells him quietly. “I understand.”

And he _does_ understand. The very thought of something like that losing its meaning, something that brings him such joy and connection and _love_ —it’s almost unbearable.

How selfish of him, that’s he’s been avoiding his mother’s letter. She’s alive and reaching out to him, and he can’t even bring himself to open her missive while Jon’s gran is dead and he can’t even _grieve_ properly.

Martin is a horrible person.

“Thank you for telling me that,” he whispers, blinking back the low burn of tears, and resolves to read the letter.

* * *

The next day, Martin slips into the bakery at Ilar, skillfully weaving through the (thankfully sparse) crowd. He has a list of items he needs tucked into his front pocket, though he hopes he’ll be able to talk to Georgie directly, rather than just handing her the note. Out of everything that he left behind in Ilar, he’s missed her the most.

She’s behind the counter again today, her hair tied up in a brightly colored headscarf, her cheek smeared with flour. Her eyes are as bright as he remembers, and she’s laughing as she hands a customer a paper bag full of bread. He watches her for a moment, hoping beyond hope that she’s a secret magic-user, and they’ll be able to talk like they used to.

He knows better to be optimistic, though.

Still, he takes a deep breath and steps to the back of the line, scratching at the skin on either side of his fingernails. When he finally reaches the head of the line, he takes a deep breath, clears his throat, and says, “Ah, hello?”

Georgie’s eyes snap unerringly to his, her eyes widening as she stares. Then her eyebrows furrow and her lips purse in an obvious sign of confusion. “Oh, hello. I, um—sorry, I thought you sounded like—what would you like?”

“Georgie,” Martin’s heart pounds in his chest. “Georgie, it’s me. It’s Martin.”

There’s a moment where she stares dumbly at him, her face a perfect expression of surprise, one hand grabbing aimlessly at the counter.

Then she points frantically toward the back room where they used to conduct their business. He follows after her, mouth dry, almost giddy with excitement. She can see him, and more than that, she _recognizes_ him.

She lets him pass, closes the door carefully behind him—and then punches his shoulder, _hard._

“Ow!” he cries, rubbing the spot.

“Martin Blackwood,” she hisses, voice rough—and then she’s gathering him into her arms, her breath stuttering like she’s fighting back sobs. “I thought—you just vanished, I thought you were _dead,_ and now—shit, Martin!” She pulls away from him, and _fuck,_ she really _is_ crying.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he winces, contrite. “I got—well, it’s a long story, but I couldn’t stay.”

“That’s a curse, right?” Georgie says, gesturing aimlessly in his direction. “You got cursed.”

“And you can see through it, which means that _you_ have magic.”

At this, Georgie lets out a watery chuckle and shakes her head. “Actually, I don’t. Not a bit of magical ability in me. I’m a—I don’t suppose you know what a Null is?”

Martin raises his eyebrows. “Someone who can repel magic?”

“Close.” Georgie seems more settled now that she’s no longer so shocked about Martin’s sudden reappearance. “Magic just...doesn’t work on me. I can’t repel it, exactly, but it just...dissipates without affecting me.”

“Oh. That’s pretty cool, actually.”

“Thanks.” she shakes her head again, sniffing hard. “But enough about me. Shit, Martin, where have you _been?_ You just…”

Martin sighs. “I can’t explain the circumstances surrounding my—well, my condition. There’s a whole mechanism that prevents me from talking about it, I guess.”

“You guess.” Georgie sounds deeply unimpressed.

“I’ve had to figure it out all on my own, okay?” he shakes his head. “I knew _nothing_ about magic before all... _this_ happened, and suddenly—well, I went to the wizard of the Wastes for help. I work there now, actually.”

Georgie’s eyes go as wide as dinner plates for the second time that day, but this time with horror. “You didn’t!”

“I _know,_ I know. It was that or go to the, the person that _did_ this, which I’m pretty sure would have had an even worse outcome—”

“Shit,” Georgie rubs at her mouth. Martin’s alive, though, which just goes to show that his gamble paid off. “Right, okay. Yeah, that’s fine. Sorry, it’s just a lot to take in.”

Martin laughs sympathetically. “Trust me, I know. He’s actually a really nice guy, actually. His name is Jonathan Sims, he runs a stall up in Rollins.”

“Wait.”

He pauses, frowning. Georgie is staring at him again, but this time her gaze is more pointed, more focused, like he’s on the other end of a microscope. “Did you say _Jonathan Sims?”_

“...yes?”

“Is he…” she lifts her palm so it’s about shoulder height. “Is he about this tall? Long black hair, always scowling? And does he always carry around a big black raven on his shoulder?”

“A—a _raven?”_ Martin frowns, trying and failing to imagine Jon with a bird on his shoulder. “I mean, everything else sounds about right, but I’ve never seen him with a raven before. But that was in the capital. Did you live there?”

“Oh.” Georgie frowns, and then shrugs. “Yeah, I lived in the capital for a while before I moved here. Jon used to come and get breakfast at the bakery, but he just _vanished_ one day. There were some pretty nasty rumors flying around.”

That puts Georgie’s reaction to his return in a new light, and he feels a fresh, acute wave of guilt. “Like I said, he’s fine. You should come visit sometime, I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you.”

“I don’t know.” she bites her lip. “It’s been almost five years. I’m not sure…”

“Nonsense,” he tells her cheerfully. “I’ll talk to Jon.”

She holds her frown for a second longer, before relenting with a smile and a sigh. “Oh, alright. It’ll be good to see him. Anyway, did you come up just to see me, or did you want to buy something? I’ve got to get back.”

“Oh, of course,” Martin unfolds his list from his pocket and hands it to her. “Just this, thanks.”

“Right.” she quickly scans the list, before pocketing it with a firm nod. “I’ll be right back, just wait here.”

“Sure.”

She pauses in the doorframe and turns to face him, her smile warm and relieved. “Oh, and Martin? It’s really, really good to see you.”

He smiles back. “It’s really good to see you too, Georgie.”

Ten minutes later, he stands on the front step of the care home, the package of baked goods clutched in his hands like a shield. He takes a deep breath, then another, trying to calm his nerves, trying to force himself to feel like he wants to be here.

Why is it that whenever he goes to visit his mother, he feels as though he’s about to enter a battlefield?

He shakes the thought away, and steps inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone please look at this color-pencil moth jon that meesha-art did! i love his wings, he looks so pretty and elegant <333  
> [link](https://meesha-art.tumblr.com/post/625624767214518272/get-urself-a-wizard-friend-with-moth-wings-and)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up for this chapter:
> 
> i am being 100% serious when i say that this is emotionally going to be the heaviest chapter of jmc. warnings for this chapter include:  
> \- elias being manipulative and gross  
> \- martin's mother, and martin's reactions to his mother (who is known to be emotionally abusive to martin. she does not appear in this chapter but i do include the immediate consequences of their meeting)  
> \- again, martin questions his own self-worth
> 
> if you think any of these things could be detrimental to you, please message me and i can give you a synopsis of the chapter. if something sticks out to you as you're reading and you think the chapter needs additional warnings, please lmk.

There is a phone on Elias' desk.

It's a small, black thing, with shiny chrome plating and mother of pearl keys. In any other location, any other office, it would be considered ostentatious, a casual flaunting of wealth that borders on insulting. Phones are a relatively new invention, and any person that owns one privately is undoubtedly in possession of a sizable wealth. In Elias' office however, with its handsome, intricately carved wooden desk, fine pens of gold and feather, and multitudes of tomes inlaid with precious metals, the phone looks out of place in that it appears drab next to the opulent furnishings surrounding it.

Peter calls it "the blackmail phone". Elias hates it when Peter calls it the blackmail phone and threatens to sue him for slander whenever he hears it because it's not _blackmail, it's using leverage to ensure success in negotiation,_ _don't be crass._ And then Peter shrugs and calls it the blackmail phone anyway, because he owns most if not all of Elias' assets and even if he does get sued, the money will probably come right back around to him so it's not like it _matters._

And so on and so forth.

Two days after Jon had made his unnecessarily dramatic exit from the royal greenhouse, Elias finishes writing up his notes, puts them in a neat, organized pile, and leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. He sits there for a second, enjoying the stretch and the feeling of a job well done.

Then he picks up the phone, and dials a number.

“Hello,” Elias says as soon as the other end of the line picks up. “Terribly sorry to bother you at this hour, I understand that it’s late.”

He waits patiently for the response, drumming his fingers lightly against the desk. He is a busy man; his time is a precious thing, because he doesn’t _have_ to be busy. He could be lazing the day away, drinking champagne out of a crystal glass while his many assistants buzz about him, completing all the tasks that he does on a daily basis, but he is not. He’s sure that other people do not understand this, because otherwise they would not keep him _waiting._

But he is also a benevolent man, so he says nothing, and instead patiently drums his fingers against his desk.

After several long moments, he smiles, slow and oily, though there is no one to witness it. “Thank you. Yes. Yes, of course.” He then states the name of the person he is attempting to reach and the nature of his call, leaving the carefully cultivated expression of greasy charm on his face. He nods a couple of times, thanks the person again, and continues to patiently, _so_ patiently, wait for the desired person to pick up the phone.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long.

There is a way Elias does these things. First, he outlines his proposal in detail, explaining all the benefits of agreeing to it. Unfortunately, most people don’t agree right away, even though it would be far more pleasant for them to do so. They disagree vehemently, make accusations regarding his soundness of mind, threaten to hang up the phone.

It is a regrettable thing, to have to resort to, ah, _using leverage_ to make them see his point of view. If it’s necessary, though (and it usually is), he’ll explain why it’s truly in their best interests to do what he wants.

(Negotiation is a perfectly respectable practice. Elias always gives the other side the chance to reciprocate, to attempt to level the playing field. It’s not his fault that they never come to the table prepared.)

After he finishes his explanation, the other party generally goes quiet. When they speak again, their voices are mutinous with indignation, or shaky with fear, or leaden with defiance. They try to tell him that he’s bluffing. He states that he very much isn’t, and does his best to convince him with only his words, as he does so _hate_ applying pressure practically.

Most agree.

(The rest, he has to demonstrate that while he hates applying pressure practically, he is capable and willing should the necessity arise.)

It is the same with this woman. He introduces himself with his full name and title, and then states the nature of his call. He outlines his proposal, emphasizing all the benefits of agreeing with him, including a sizable sum of money. Once he finishes he folds his fingers together, continuing to smile—all performative actions, of course, but they’re a habit which he has had a hard time breaking.

There is a beat of silence, a moment to digest. Elias’ smile widens in anticipation, ready to proceed with the next step of his little procedure—

She says, boredom plain in her voice, “You’re going to have to offer me a lot more if you want me to do something like that.”

Elias hesitates.

He hardly ever encounters a person who does not immediately fight back, who does not attempt to bargain and fight for the sake of silly, useless sentiment. The _audacity_ of this woman, who is willing to set a price on her son’s head—

His smile widens into something sharper and more genuine, something dangerous and acidic, like a viper bearing its teeth before it strikes.

He rather thinks that he can work with this.

* * *

Martin is walking down the street.

There are things that he knows he did, actions that he remembers performing, which feel like they were done by someone else. The soft murmur of a goodbye, the click of the door as it closes, the sudden unevenness of the ground beneath him as he steps out onto the cobblestones, away from the care home. All a million miles away, all the experiences of a stranger.

He knows that he must have experienced these things, but all that he is aware of is a distant, muffled feeling in the back of his mind.

There is fog gathering about his feet.

A thought breaks through the stupor he’s been in ever since he left the care home—he’s being _stupid._ He’s being well and truly ridiculous, there’s no reason he should be feeling this awful, this out of sorts, she didn’t—

She didn’t even say anything.

He stops in the middle of the street, his whole body buckling, tucking his arms over his chest. The bag she’d given him is folded against his side, and it doesn’t quite feel real. None of this feels real. People part around him like water parting around a river stone, and he is so, so alone.

The fog billows around him, and he is up to his knees in the dewy cold.

She’d smiled at him. She _never_ smiles at him, or at least he thinks that she’s never smiled at him before. Not in a long time, anyway. And she gave him the bag in his hands as a gift. It’s a luxurious velvet thing, something he hadn’t thought her capable of affording considering her current living situation, and the contents clink together like small bits of metal when it moves.

He wants to scream. He wants to shout at her for _doing_ this to him, for making him look back and question every interaction with her, for making him feel like his mind is playing tricks on him. What was it about this one that made it go well? Why did she suddenly reach out to him and request him to come to her care home, when she never has before?

Maybe she reached out to him out of some sort of misplaced guilt, to establish some sort of relationship before she dies. It would make a certain sort of sense, but...but their meeting was _weird._ She’d smiled at him and given him the bag, yes, but her voice had held the same apathy, the same uncaring demeanor she’d always affected when he visited.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and he can’t _think,_ his thoughts are getting bogged down in the thick mire, and he is as slow and as stupid as he ever has been, just like his mother always said.

She...she told him that. Is that the sort of thing a mother says to her child, even if it’s true?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and he can’t _think,_ he can’t—

_I want to talk to someone about this._

It’s a strange thought, an unfamiliar one. It tumbles into the jumble of his mind and sticks to the forefront, taking up more and more space. He’s never wanted a second opinion before he came to the castle, he’s never _needed_ it, but for some reason the idea of laying all of this out—the meeting, the letter, everything—to Jon or Gerry or both and talking through it is so appealing it almost steals his breath away.

Asking for help is needy. Asking for advice is _needy._ No one likes a person who is needy, and besides, it’s selfish to ask them to listen to his problems when they have so many of their own.

_You went to the capital for Jon. Jon asked you for help._

He hesitates. That...that’s true. He did do that, didn’t he?

Jon and Gerry have shown concern for him before. They were worried when he was making that dough last night. Right?

Maybe it’s selfish, and maybe he’ll look needy, but...isn’t it okay for him to reach out? He offered his help to Jon, and hasn’t thought less of him for doing so. Maybe…

(He doesn’t notice the fog receding, just a bit.)

He takes a deep breath, forces his arms to unclench, drops them to his sides. The bag jangles as he does so, and he almost jumps at the sudden noise after being trapped with only his own thoughts as company. And then, just like a flip has been switched, the people around him come abruptly back into focus and the burble of conversation washes over him. He instinctively shies away from the people that threaten to run into him, curling his arms close to his chest.

There is a chill still sitting in the core of him. His mind feels hazy, and there are too many people around him, and he _wants to go home._

He wants to go home.

And just like that he’s hurrying down the street, dodging slower pedestrians as politely as he can manage in his single-minded determination to get to the castle. Luckily his house isn’t that far from the care home, and within minutes he’s stumbling through the doorway into the living room. He throws open the broom closet and hurries up the stairs.

Martin stops at the top, panting hard, his heart thrumming in his chest. Gerry, obviously having sensed his approach, has already risen from the flames, a small, worried frown on his face.

“Gerry!” Martin says, and it’s far louder than he meant it to be.

“Martin,” Gerry says in a hesitant, almost wary tone, like he’s worried they’re being attacked or something.

For a second Martin stands there, his heartbeat slowing, his breathing going back to normal. He thinks about everything that he wants to say, tries to organize it into something coherent, something that Gerry will understand…

The words won’t come.

He can feel them like a weight on his tongue, and they’re painfully heavy. The only thing he can think though, over and over again, is _I visited my mother and she was nice to me._ Everything else—the confusion, the pain, it all feels so distant now that he’s no longer in the throes of it.

It wasn’t that bad, was it? Isn’t he just being dramatic? Certainly not worth burdening Gerry or Jon with. He doesn’t want them to think that he’s attention seeking, because he’s _not,_ he’s not that kind of person.

Everything is fine.

“...nothing,” he says after a moment, feeling more exhausted than he probably should.

That only serves to make Gerry look even _more_ concerned. “Are you sure? You look awful.”

Guilt is a heavy, cloying feeling, and he silently curses himself for causing all this fuss. “No, I—yeah, fine. Everything is fine. I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry to have worried you.”

Fortunately for Martin, Gerry is not the type to pry when people clearly don’t want to discuss something. Still frowning, he jerks his head in the direction of Martin’s bag. “What’s that?”

“Oh!” Martin had honestly forgotten that he’d had it. He walks over to the dining table (Daisy, who’s been watching them with dark, curious eyes, skitters out of the way) that’s permanently taken residence in the middle of the room and spills the contents of the bag across its surface. Just like he’d thought, it’s a bag full of loose change and some odd metal trinkets. He brushes his hand through them, spreading them across the table, quickly estimating the total value. It’s not a lot, about five silver’s worth of copper pennies, plus some oddly shaped decorative items, but it’s more than she’s ever given him before. “Just...a present from my mother.”

Martin is so focused on shuffling the coins into like piles that he doesn’t notice that Gerry’s been strangely quiet until the man appears at his shoulder. He jumps, startled, but pauses when he notices the oddly intense look in Gerry’s orange eyes, which are slowly but steadily turning yellow.

“...Gerry?”

Gerry whirls on him, trailing flames in his wake. The yellow in his eyes seems that much brighter. “You said you got these from your mother?”

Bewildered and a little frightened, Martin nods hurriedly. “She, she, she sent me a letter asking if I would visit her this morning, so I did?”

“Was there anything unusual about the visit?”

Martin feels cold dread coiling in his stomach. “Gerry, tell me what’s going on.”

Gerry scoops one of the decorative objects into his hand and holds it up. It’s a clumsy, twisted metal spiral made of dull metal, and is actually quite ugly. It’s the sort of present you thanked the giver for and then hid away in a corner or something so you never had to look at it ever again.

He tosses it into the air, and as he does so, the spiral—changes. The dull, drab silver metal begins to shine, begins to _transform,_ into bright, neon green. The spiral grows smoother, grows sharper, the joints becoming delicate and finely constructed. By the time the piece has landed back into Gerry’s hand, there’s a neon green eye pressed in the center of a loose silver spiral, the craftsmanship masterful even to Martin’s untrained eye.

Martin stares at it, and there is a low buzzing in the back of his head.

“This is a surveillance enchantment. It’s Elias’, I can feel his magic all over it.” Gerry says grimly. His hand catches fire, and within a couple of seconds the metal is melting against the palm of his hand, the neon glow fading as it burns.

“I didn’t know,” he whispers numbly. It’s all he can think to say.

His mother—his mother gave him this. She knew, she _must_ have known, she _never_ smiles at him, which should have made him all the more suspicious. He should have known better. _He should have known better,_ but he was so blinded by the thought that maybe this time would be different, maybe—

Elias’ words appear, unbidden, in his mind. _I’m ever so grateful to you, you know, considering you were the one who led me right to him._

This is his fault.

Everything that’s happened up to this point, all the danger that Jon is in, it’s his doing. He was selfish in thinking that this castle could be something like a home, that he could be happy here. But it’s wrong, it’s all wrong, he’s only ever brought danger and pain, and he can’t believe he hasn’t seen it before—

But his mother had told him, hadn’t she? That he only ever brought misfortune, that he was a bumbling idiot of a boy, that everything he touched came to ruin.

It would be better if he’d never come here at all.

* * *

“Please come back to us in a couple of weeks for a refill,” Sasha tells the pregnant woman politely, handing her a small bag full of supplements. The woman smiles and thanks her, before taking the hand of the young child beside her and continuing on her way.

Jon carefully marks down the sale in his finances notebook, writing each number in clearly legible script. He’d once mistaken a nine for a four and had to completely redo his spreadsheets a few months ago, which had been a pain. He doesn’t actually like handling the financials, but Sasha (bless her) has truly awful handwriting, so he has, in no uncertain terms, put himself in charge of that side of things.

“How’s our stock on those?” he asks absentmindedly, tapping his pen against the desk.

“We have plenty.” She stretches from side to side and sighs before finally sitting back down. “At least enough for the next few months.”

He nods and closes the notebook with a snap. The day is pleasantly cool, and the breeze carries the salty, fresh scent of the sea. His magic senses tell him that rain is approaching, although that’s not so unusual, considering that Rollins is a port town.

“How’s progress with the mannequin?”

Sasha scowls. “I’ve managed to unravel the curse, just enough so that I could see the core of it. It’s got some sort of specific condition, but I can’t tell just from looking at it.”

“Ugh.” Jon wrinkles his nose. Conditional curses, ones that are broken once a very specific circumstance or set of circumstances is fulfilled, are deeply irritating. The conditions can be as elaborate as the caster desires—for example, performing a dance under a comet that appears once every five hundred years.

Sasha shrugs. “I’m not giving up just yet. Just a little bit more of a challenge than I expected.”

“I’m certain you’re up for it,” he tells her encouragingly. He’s not just saying that, either; Sasha is one of the most brilliant magic-users he’s ever met. She may not have a large amount of magic, but she is so clever and subtle in her craft that it hardly matters.

She smiles, and opens her mouth—

Jon gasps suddenly, clutching at his chest, trying to fight back the intense rush of _something_ that threatens to bowl him over. It’s from the other end of his bond with Gerry, and he’s never felt him like this—

 _“Jon!”_ Gerry’s voice rings out, and Jon is already out of his seat and heading toward the castle.

“Watch the stall for a second,” he mutters to Sasha, before slamming the door after him.

Gerry meets him at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes very wide and very, very bright yellow. “Jon, it’s Martin.”

Jon can’t think around the mess of _something_ bleeding into him from the other end of the bond. His hands flutter aimlessly at his sides as he says, “Gerry, I need you to stop for a second, okay? I can’t concentrate like this.”

The hearthkeeper stares at him blankly for a second, his eyes shining like lamps peering out from the darkness. Then he slams his eyelids close, dropping them into the unbroken shadows at the bottom of the stairs. Jon carefully wraps his hand around Gerry’s elbow as he breathes long, slow breaths, and the overflow from their bond quiets into something far more manageable.

“Okay. Now, tell me what happened.”

“The Lonely has Martin,” Gerry says, opening his eyes again and dragging his fingers through his hair. “I—he went to visit his mother today, and she gave him a bag, and it had an enchantment from _Elias_ in it—”

“What?” Jon gasps, aghast.

“—and he, he, I think he maybe thought that I was blaming him, but it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t have known, I was the only one who could see it—”

 _“Shit,”_ Jon whispers, mind racing. The curse is a product of the Lonely, so it feeds off and strengthens feelings of inadequacy and poor self-esteem. It doesn’t take an idiot to see that Martin undervalues himself—he quite literally threw himself at one of the most dangerous magic users in the land for the sake of someone he barely knew. If he had reason to believe that his presence in the castle was putting them in danger— “Elias told Martin that he was the reason I was discovered.”

Gerry’s mouth snaps shut, and Jon can see him finally thinking, finally making the same connections that Jon already has. “Fuck. _Fuck.”_

“Do you know where he is?” Jon asks urgently. They need to find Martin _now,_ or they might never see him again.

“The Wastes,” Gerry whispers, wrapping his hand around Jon’s wrist, tapping his pulse point. “The door changed, and it opened and shut before I could stop it. He’s in the Wastes.”

“Tell Sasha where I’ve gone. I’m going to see if I can bring him back.”

Gerry bites his lip and nods, and Jon pauses when he realizes that the hearthkeeper’s eyes are no longer yellow. They’re going the opposite direction now, to burnt orange, to a low, smoldering red, and Jon feels slow and stupid. He used to be able to understand his closest friend with barely a thought. It didn’t used to take Gerry standing here, shoulders bowed, expression twisted with regret and guilt, to realize that something was wrong.

Jon crowds into Gerry’s space, taking his hands and squeezing gently. “You know that this isn’t your fault, right?”

“I should have known better,” his voice is heavy with guilt.

Jon sighs quietly. Gerry is usually so steady and reasonable, but he’s especially so when he blames himself for something. It makes it that much more difficult to convince him that he’s wrong, that it’s not his fault. He’s just so damn _logical_ about it Jon doesn’t know what to say most of the time.

He squeezes Gerry’s hands again, and sends a silent apology to Martin. “Martin should have known that he isn’t the one bringing danger to our doorstep, and that we wouldn’t blame him for it.”

Gerry’s head snaps up, and he scowls defensively. “That’s not fair.”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “Not fair? Like blaming yourself for Martin disappearing into the Lonely not fair?”

Gerry’s eyebrows come together, and he opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, like he’s trying to find the words to argue but is coming up empty.

“I’ll bring him back,” Jon promises, and finally lets go, his fingers still tingling with residual warmth. He turns and changes the circle to the green segment, opens the door, and steps out into the fog.

* * *

_It’s cold here. He doesn’t like the cold, or at least he doesn’t think that he does._

_Maybe he does._

_It’s a comforting sort of cold, a blanketing sort, that gives the world a forgiving haziness. Things are less sharp, less likely to cut._

_..._

_Less likely to cut than what?_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_Is he the only person here? He can’t be the only person in the world, because that would imply that he is the sum of all of humanity, and his worth is equal to so little. But then again, what creates worth in a person?_

_Whatever that value is, he is quite sure that he lacks it._

_He cannot be the only person in this world._

_…_

_…_

_…_

_He doesn’t think that he dislikes the cold—he thinks that he misses when it was warm. He has faint memories of a fire, of flames capable of blazing an intense blue but are usually comfortingly orange._

_Comforting?_

_Isn’t the cold the thing that is comforting?_

_…_

_Isn’t it safer for it to be cold?_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_He can’t see anything. The fog is so thick that it feels as though he’s walking underwater. It’s fine as long as he stands very still, as long as he doesn’t try to move around too much. The moment he moves his arm or goes to take a step, however, the weight comes crashing down._

_Better to stay in place. Better to fold in on himself, make himself small._

_…_

_…_

_Is someone calling his name?_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_He’s the only person here, isn’t he? How could someone be calling his name?_

_…_

_There’s niggling recognition in the back of his mind. He knows that voice, he knows the shape of the person who is reaching out._

_That’s—_

You led us right to him, you know.

_…_

_It’s better if they don’t see each other._

…

…

…

 _The person has been calling for a long time. Why hasn’t he given up? He should know better. He should_ know better. _He’s only ever been a danger to them, a—_

 _He? He should know better, but he has only ever been a danger, and that doesn’t make any_ sense—

 _Martin. I am a separate person, I am Martin Blackwood, and_ he _is Jon, and Jon is calling out to me._

_…_

_Should I respond?_

_…_

_I was a danger to Jon. I brought Elias to Jon’s doorstep, I caused Gerry to worry, I will only ever bring misfortune._

_…_

_He hasn’t stopped calling. Shouldn’t he stop calling?_

_…_

_…_

_I don’t want him to stop calling._

_…_

_I don’t want him to go. I don’t like it here. I want to go back to where it’s warm, and there is more than just me. But I don’t deserve it, do I?_

_I…_

_…_

_What creates worth in a person? If Jon is calling for me, and continues to call for me, doesn’t that mean that he sees some sort of worth in me? Does that worth outweigh the damage that I have caused?_

_He didn’t like me when we first met, was suspicious and mistrustful. Now that I have brought Elias to his doorstep, surely he will be suspicious and mistrustful again._

_…_

_He is searching through the fog. Surely it would be easier for him to abandon me, to let me be devoured._

_…_

_Devoured. Is that what’s happening?_

_I don’t want to be devoured. I don’t want to be alone. But isn’t it safer that way? If I hadn’t been there, then Elias’ coin would never have ended up in the castle. I carried it from the care home, I..._

_…_

_I accepted it from her._

_…_

_…_

_…_

_She is the one who gave it to me._

_It’s the same sentence, it means the same thing. She is the one who gave the coin to me, she is the one who called me to her. I didn’t—I didn’t do that, I didn’t mean to do that._

_Does that matter? Does intent matter?_

_…_

_It has to matter. Intent has to matter._

_Jon is calling out to me. Do I blame him for being cursed? Do I blame him for being in danger in the first place? It wasn’t his intent, so of course not._

_…_

_It’s different for me. Why is it different for me?_

_…_

_It shouldn’t be different for me._

_..._

_I don’t want to be alone anymore._

* * *

“Martin!”

Jon’s voice is growing hoarse, and his lips are dry and chapped. He doesn’t stop, though. He can’t stop. If Martin stays here for too long, they might lose him entirely, and the thought is intolerable. He’s not going to lose Martin. He refuses.

“Martin, please!” but his voice cracks on the last word, shattering, and that’s _useless,_ how is Martin supposed to hear him if he can’t even speak?

This fog is getting to him. He hasn’t been able to see the castle in a while, his bond with Gerry is muffled and distant, and his fingers are stiff with cold. It would be so easy to lose his way here, and he knows that he needs to get out soon, especially considering his curse, but Martin is still here, trapped in this cold isolation.

“Martin,” he whispers, the word falling from his lips like a prayer. “Martin.”

And then Martin is before him, his features far fainter than Jon has ever seen them before. Fog bleeds from his mouth, his nose, but his eyes are just barely clear, just barely cognizant.

“There you are,” he rasps, his knees going weak with relief.

“I’m so cold,” Martin says, monotonous and uncaring, like he doesn’t even hear what he’s saying.

“I know.” Jon steps forward and gently loops his arm through Martin’s, tucking it against his side. It’s freezing, but he forces himself not to let go. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

* * *

Martin slips into awareness slowly, tentatively, like someone dipping their toes into the water to ascertain the temperature.

He blinks, and realizes that he’s curled on the edge of the hearth, a blanket wrapped around him, pinning him in place. It’s warm, almost unbearably so, and when he glances over he realizes that he’s pressed up against Gerry’s side, an arm thrown curled around his back.

Gerry looks up and smiles when he notices Martin’s gaze, though there’s a touch of nerves there as well. “Hey. Hope this is okay. You kept saying you were cold.”

Martin wavers, unable to describe the emotion that rushes through him at the sight of that dear, worried face. “I’m warm now,” he decides, which is and is not an answer.

Gerry’s smile widens, and he reaches up and gently tweaks one of Martin’s turbulent curls. When he lets go, the hair is blackened and smoking slightly.

Martin doesn’t think that he cares.

“I brought the tea—oh.” Jon pauses, his eyes widening in surprise. “You’re...you’re awake.”

Martin rubs his eyes and reaches for the tea, which Jon immediately hands over. “How long was I…”

“Not long.” Jon shakes his head. “Actually Gerry, the enchantment is going to wear off the blanket soon, so you may want to let go if you don't want to burn him.”

Gerry pouts, but obligingly slides away. The space he leaves behind is strangely cold, strangely bereft, and he rubs his arm, trying to will the feeling away.

More importantly, though… “What happened?”

Jon frowns, which Martin has learned actually means ‘uncomfortable’. “It’s, it’s, ah…” he glances at Gerry, his mouth twisting up at the corner.

“Your condition grows stronger whenever you feel isolated, or are experiencing emotions which are tangential to isolation,” Gerry explains, his voice carefully steady. “When you realized what the surveillance enchantment was, you had such an intense feeling of isolation that you entered the Lonely’s domain, more or less.”

Martin swallows and sets his tea on the stone beside him, before his shaking hands spill liquid over the side. It feels odd to have everything laid out before him in such a logical way, when for him the desire to be alone had been less want and more desperate urge. It had been overwhelming, overpowering, a compulsion that had consumed him until all other thoughts had fled. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about _what?”_ Jon demands, his voice full of incredulity.

“For causing you trouble,” Martin says, waving vaguely in the direction of the door. “For...for forcing you to come after me.”

“Martin,” Gerry interrupts, low and serious. “We were scared that we were going to lose you. I would have come after you if I could. You didn’t force him to do anything.”

Martin stares blankly, unsure as to what he’s even supposed to _say_ to that.

Jon jumps in before he can gather himself enough to speak. “He’s right. Whatever impression I gave when we first met, I...I trust you. I trust that you wouldn’t have done something like this on purpose.”

“I should’ve known better though,” Martin blurts out, and oh no, oh _no,_ this is so stupid, he promised that he wouldn’t burden them any further, but— “I should’ve known better. She asked to see me, she _never_ asks to see me, I should have known that something was wrong, I just thought that maybe she—I don’t know. I thought she wanted for things to be better, and—”

To his horror, his voice cracks on the end of his words. He tries to open his mouth, to apologize, to say _anything_ to fix this, but a choked sob comes out instead. He lifts his hands to his mouth, trying to stifle himself, but he can’t stop thinking about it now, he wasn’t _thinking_ before, that she called him to her and smiled at him and then betrayed him and Jon like it meant nothing to her, like he means _nothing_ to her.

All the emotions he’s been suppressing until now, all the pain and the anger and the frustration, crashes into him. He doubles over at the force of it, squeezing his hands tight over his mouth, but it does nothing to muffle his sobs or to hide the tears that fall from his eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” Jon whispers, and then he’s gathering Martin into his arms, gentle and kind and so, so careful, like he’s holding something precious.

Martin clutches at him, desperate for any port in the storm, and continues to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone! so you may have noticed that the chapter came down for a couple of seconds, don't worry about it!! please let me know if you think it needs any extra warnings!

Sasha hurries along the street, the mannequin trailing in her wake. She can tell that she’s wearing an alarming expression on her face by the way people are jumping out of her path, but she thinks that it’s warranted.

Yesterday, Martin was devoured by the Lonely. Those few hours when she had no idea what was going on, whether or not they would be able to get him out, had been some of the most nerve wracking of her life. She could’ve lost him forever, and she hadn’t even remembered the last thing that she’d said to him.

Martin’s not the only person she’s worried about, either. Gerry had looked small and so very guilty as he’d explained what had happened, his eyes a subdued crimson. Jon had quite literally thrown himself into the Lonely after Martin, and she doesn’t know how that domain would affect a person whose heart is frozen into stillness, but she can’t imagine that it’s good. The point is, they’re all probably in a bad way.

Dammit. _Dammit._ Obviously it’s not Martin’s fault that this all happened, but she can’t help but feel a little resentful of the timing. The confrontation at the capital happened mere days ago—don’t they deserve a bit of a break?

That’s not how life works. As attractive as the idea is, bad things strike at the fickle whims of fate.

Sasha pauses outside the castle door, mentally readying herself. She’s so distracted that she almost jumps in surprise when a stiff hand reassuringly pats her shoulder. She gives the mannequin a quick smile over her shoulder, before turning back to the door and knocking firmly.

There’s a few moments of silence, the quiet crackle of lightning—and the door unlatches and creaks open. She frowns when she realizes that there’s no one there, and that the door has seemingly opened under its own power. She didn’t realize that the door could do that.

She shakes her head, and pushes the rest of the way inside. She can ask Gerry about it later.

Martin is seated on the edge of the hearth, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a mug of tea in his hands. He seems normal at first glance, but the more she looks, the more evidence of the Lonely she sees. His features have always been a bit faded, a bit indistinct, but now her gaze can’t quite focus on him, like he’s composed of a heat mirage. There’s bits of fog curling on the floor around his feet as well, so pale that she thought it was her imagination playing tricks on her at first.

But he’s here, and he’s whole. That’s more than she’d expected yesterday.

“Martin,” Sasha says, crossing the floor in a few short steps and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He has to hurriedly set the mug in his hands on the stone next to him, but then he’s hugging her back. She wishes that this was a better situation, so that she could appreciate the fact that he gives great hugs.

After a couple of seconds they separate, and Sasha hops up next to him. The mannequin hesitates for a moment, before sitting down beside her, his long legs splaying out before him. The fire is warm on her back, and she idly wonders where Gerry and Jon are.

“Hi Sasha,” Martin says in a small, thready voice.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

Martin gives her a self deprecating smile. “Fine. Much better than I was doing yesterday.”

Sasha barks a disbelieving laugh at _that_ understatement. “I mean—yeah. _Shit,_ Martin, we were all so worried about you.”

To her surprise, he rolls his eyes and pulls his blanket tighter around him in a way that can almost be described as disgruntled. It’s not an expression she’s seen from him before, even when Jon was at the height of his wariness. “I know. I know! I can appreciate that, I really can. But it’s just—they’ve been hovering. Jon and Gerry, that is.”

Sasha hesitates, giving him a long, reproachful look. But no, it’s not fair to expect him to know about the Lonely. He’s only just recently learned about the fourteen entities, after all.

“Martin,” she begins, uncertain as to how much she should tell him. She doesn’t want to scare him, but she _does_ want to impress upon him how dire his situation was, and possibly still is. “The thing is...they have a right to be worried.”

Martin stares at her blankly, his eyebrows furrowed in polite confusion.

“Someone has to really want to enter the Lonely to go into it, which means that it’s really hard for them to get out, and _stay_ out.” she shakes her head, ignoring the horror rising like bile in her throat at the thought of Martin ending up in that place forever. She desperately wants to ask about what happened, but understands that the incident is still too fresh for casual perusal. “Most people who go in never come back.”

He’s still staring at her, his polite confusion slowly but surely melting into stunned understanding. She’s glad; it wouldn’t be good for him to continue on with the misconception that falling into the Lonely isn’t serious, because Jon and Gerry would do anything to keep him from doing so again.

(Hell, if she wasn’t certain that Jon’s heart no longer beat, she’d be convinced that Jon was in love with Martin.)

“Jon really saved your life yesterday, you know?” she finishes, gently but firmly. “I think they’re entitled to a little bit of hovering.”

Martin’s gaze drifts from her to the ground. There’s no focus there, though it’s a different sort of distance than one enforced by the Lonely. No, this is the type caused by a mind deep in thought, processing new information, trying to put it into a comprehensible frame of reference.

Sasha leaves him to it, turning her attention once more to the question of where Jon and Gerry are. It seems strange that they would leave Martin alone like this, especially so soon after he escaped the Lonely. _Especially_ considering the fact that Daisy, the guard-turned-dog, is napping underneath the table.

The guard’s presence in the castle makes her deeply uncomfortable, but there’s nothing that can be done about that. Letting her go would open them up to future attack, and keeping her constantly locked up would be overly cruel. Still, she hates the constant scrutiny, and she hates the thought of an agent of Elias’ being allowed to wander the castle at will. It makes her want to pull the mannequin behind her, protect him from view.

He would call her ridiculous if he could hear her thoughts, tell her that he doesn’t need her protection. He _does,_ though. She took her eyes off of him for literally a week, and he got cursed and spirited away to another country.

“Oh, Sasha.” Jon’s voice comes from up and somewhere to her left, breaking her out of her musings. He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a blue blouse with flowing sleeves made of sheer fabric embroidered with golden stars, his hair swept into a loose braid. Gerry appears a second later, bending down to peer over Jon’s shoulder with wide, bright orange eyes.

“Jon, Gerry,” she greets. “How are you both?”

“Fine.” Jon’s voice is dismissive even as he says it. He steps from the stairs and makes a beeline toward Martin, a determined expression on his face. “Here, Martin, we finished making this enchantment for you. You should be protected from falling back into the Lonely from now on.”

“Hi Sasha,” Gerry says, before adding to Martin, “It’s only a temporary one. We’ll make you something more permanent in a week or so.”

“Thank you.” Martin gives them a faint, wondering smile, accepting the little pendant that Jon hands him. He unclasps the necklace still hung around his neck and slides it next to the other pendant, letting it come to rest just above his sternum.

Jon nods, tight and perfunctorily, like he’s congratulating himself on a job well done. Then he turns to Sasha and says, “Let’s get set up.”

“Sure,” she responds, amused at them all, and relieved that Martin will be safe for the foreseeable future, if Jon and Gerry have anything to say about it. She gets to her feet and brushes off her skirt, before going to grab the fold out table that she and Jon sit at.

When she comes back downstairs, the table tucked securely under one arm, she pauses at the scene before her. The mannequin has scooted over to take her place, his arm thrown over Martin’s shoulders. Gerry is straddled across the edge of the cobblestone hearth on Martin’s other side, and is relating some story to them both, gesticulating to enunciate his point.

She leans against the railing, watching them, her chest aching. They just look...so serene. Martin’s got a bit of color back in his face, and the wisping fog is nowhere in sight. Gerry’s expression is backlit by the flames, casting light over his sharp, unmistakable smile. And the mannequin—well, she can’t read his expression right now, but she knows him well enough to see that he is content.

She sighs and strides past them, down the stairs and out onto Rollin’s cobblestone street. Gerry and the mannequin seem to have things well in hand.

It’s only ten minutes after they’ve finished setting up, their various books and medicines spread around them, that they realize that Daisy has followed them outside.

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Sasha growls, drawing herself up to her full height. Admittedly this is not very impressive, but it _does_ emphasize the slight height difference between her and Jon. “I’m not working with her here.”

“I mean,” Jon’s face twists with consternation, and he glances down at Daisy, who looks back at him with what can only be an unimpressed expression. “I told her that she had free run of the place, as long as she didn’t attempt to hurt anyone or escape. I can’t, I can’t just force her back inside.”

“Everything that she sees and hears could come back to Elias someday,” she argues, shooting the small dog a poisonous look. “Do you really want to jeopardize your safety like that? _Martin’s_ safety?”

Jon glances down at Daisy, frowning, clearly as uncomfortable with her presence as Sasha is. He shakes his head, though. “We’re just selling people medicine and taking statements. I don’t think that there’s anything _to_ hear.” And then, in a lower voice, he murmurs, “and you would rather leave her alone in the castle with them?”

She frowns. He has a point. The idea of leaving Daisy alone with the mannequin for an indefinite amount of time makes something in her rankle.

“Well...fine,” she concedes, shooting Daisy one last suspicious look.

As the day progresses, though, more and more she gets the feeling that the guard-turned-dog isn’t observing them with any sort of purpose in mind. Instead, she thinks that woman is wearing something more akin to thoughtfulness, her dark eyes lacking the sharp, malicious edge that had characterized them for the first day or so.

And then a small child who’d accompanied their mother to the stall toddles over, without Sasha and Jon noticing, kneels to clumsily pat Daisy’s back, cooing softly. To Sasha’s shock, Daisy only lifts her head from the cobblestone path and gives the child’s grubby face a careful sniff, before settling back down again with a sigh.

Sasha’s not sure what she’s supposed to do with that.

* * *

“Do you want to come on a walk with me?”

Martin lifts his head from the book he was reading, his blanket slipping from his shoulders as he shifts. It’s a book about the Lonely and its domain, because after the conversation with Sasha this morning he was struck by how little he actually knows about the entity he was cursed by.

Jon is standing at the bottom of the stairs, his hand lingering at the end of the bannister, lip caught between his teeth. He looks the very image of a mystical, powerful wizard, with his deep blue shirt dotted with shimmering golden stars and his long, dark hair spilling in a loose braid like a waterfall over one shoulder.

Martin knows him well enough to understand some of the little details that he sees. There’s a smudge of dark soot on one cheek that he must have missed while cleaning up after making a new batch of tinctures. There’s a golden star tucked into his hair tie, half-hidden, that he thinks must have been put there by Gerry’s careful hands. Gerry does so love to play with Jon’s hair, to decorate the silver-shot black with trinkets and baubles.

There is something so very comforting about this knowledge, these little insights into Jon’s appearance and life. He remembers being scared of this familiarity, this connection that means seeing and _being_ seen—but it doesn’t seem so bad, now. It soothes some part of him that still gapes and screams for isolation, that tells him that it is better and more convenient for everyone if he makes himself small and Lonely.

Jon stands before him, dear all the way down to his bones, and his searching gaze only makes Martin feel warm. Jon is concerned about him. Jon cares for his wellbeing, and would come for him even when he is at his most wretched.

 _I think they’re entitled to a little bit of hovering,_ Sasha had said.

Maybe she was right. Whatever power that could make him think that he didn’t want this was one that was warranted no small amount of terror.

“Sure,” he says finally, setting the book, and the Lonely, to one side. While not forgotten, it is a topic best left for other days. “Sure, let’s go.”

Gerry drifts over to the edge of the fire. “You’re going to Tellorin?”

“We won’t be long,” Jon responds, although even as he speaks a frown crosses his lips. “Gerry?”

Gerry opens his mouth as though to speak, before closing his mouth and shaking his head. His smile has a self-deprecating edge to it, and—hm. After this morning, Gerry had dove into the fire and not come out all day. It’s not so unusual—he prefers to stay in the hearth as much as possible, after all—but now Martin wonders if there was more to it.

Jon must agree, because his frown deepens and he steps forward, closing the distance between himself and the fire. “Gerry.”

Gerry shrinks back until only the upper half of his face is visible, like he’s trying to hide. “It’s nothing.”

Jon hesitates for a second, his eyes narrowing in thought—and then widening in realization. He turns to Martin and says, “Martin, tell Gerry you’re not mad at him.”

“What?” Martin asks, bewildered, over the sound of Gerry squawking, _Jon!_ “What would I have to be mad about?”

Jon nods, like everything is fine now. “There, you see? He’s not mad.”

“But it was my actions that put you in the Lonely!” Gerry says, and now that Martin’s looking for it, the distress is plain as day on his face. “I should’ve—I should’ve known better. I should have said that I didn’t blame you for the spying enchantment, _obviously_ it wasn’t your fault—”

“Woah!” Martin holds up his hands, and Gerry immediately falls silent, his gaze skittering down and away again. “Woah. It wasn’t your fault, okay? Not even a little bit.”

Gerry still doesn’t look convinced. “But…”

Martin has been sitting on these words his entire life, letting them fester rather than release them to the world. But Gerry is so upset, and he doesn’t know how to allay his concerns without explaining it, and he’s _tired,_ okay? He’s tired of holding it in.

“It was my mum, okay?” he says, voice trembling on the end of his words. “I visited her yesterday morning, and she usually, she usually...she has this way of making me feel...bad. Well, yesterday she was nice. She was nice, and I thought she might want to fix things, but instead she gave Elias a way to spy on us. _That’s_ what happened, so you can stop blaming yourself, alright?”

He lets out a long, slow breath, feeling strange and off kilter, but not necessarily better. Jon and Gerry are both staring at him, processing, and he hopes that they won’t judge him too badly.

Gerry is the first one to move. He swallows and pulls himself up over the side of the hearth, a helpless intent in his eyes that Martin can’t quite comprehend.

“Jon,” he says, and Jon starts into motion.

Jon steps forward, picks up the blanket that Martin had discarded, and hands it to Gerry, who wraps it around his front. Then Gerry, kind and placid and wonderful Gerry, engulfs Martin in an intensely warm hug. He lets out a huff of air, and the breath that ruffles Martin’s hair feels as though it just came from a furnace. "Thank you for telling me."

He steps back just as the heat starts to become unbearable, drops the smoking blanket to the floor, and sinks back into the flames, casually as you please.

Martin is quiet for a second, stunned at the fact that this is the second hug he’s received from Gerry in as many days. More than that, it’s the second hug that he’s received from the man, ever, and the first one that he’s been able to fully appreciate, even if only for a moment.

“Come on,” Jon says quietly, his voice accompanied by a gentle touch on Martin’s elbow.

Martin nods, and goes.

Jon heads down the stairs first, and Martin follows close after him, like a planet pulled inexorably into orbit around a star. He watches as Jon changes the circle to the blue segment—

The door opens, and the sinking sun spills through the doorway, momentarily blinding him with its brilliance. He stops in place, throwing up a hand to block the light—but then a warm, dry hand is curling around his, tugging him gently along, and he stumbles the rest of the way downstairs, clutching Jon’s arm for support.

“Sorry,” Jon says, eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Are you okay?”

“It’s really bright,” he says, rubbing the shine out of his eyes. “Where are we?”

Jon pauses for a second, and when Martin glances up at him, he looks a bit sheepish. “Tellorin. My, uh. My hometown.”

Martin must have been quiet for a second too long, because Jon looks away and starts babbling, “It’s fine if you don’t want to go, I understand, I hadn’t realized that—that your mother was the cause of all of this, I didn’t mean—”

“I want to see!” it’s a touch too fast, a touch too eager, and he blushes at himself for it. Slowly this time, his voice carefully even, he repeats, “I want to see.” 

Jon favors him with one last, concerned look, before nodding his assent. It’s only then that they both realize that they’ve been holding onto each other all this time. Martin knows this because he looks down at their joined arms, and then Jon looks down at their joined arms, and then he looks back up with a vaguely panicked expression on his face and shakes loose.

“Right,” Jon says. “Come on, then.”

It’s only then that Martin finally gets a proper look at the world around them, at the place where Jon grew up.

The first thing that he sees is a great mountain range stretching across the horizon, mostly blue except for the icy white caps of snow that top the highest peaks. Forests blanket the sides, dark and verdant, lining the foothills like natural sentries. There’s a lake stretching out only a few meters from his feet, gently lapping at the rocky shore, the reflection of the sunset painted in hues of soft pink and orange across the waves.

“Oh,” Martin whispers.

“Tellorin is at the base of the Ingary mountain range near the northwestern border,” Jon explains quietly, beginning to walk along the path that skirts one side of the lake. Martin hurries to catch up with him, still marveling at the scenery. “It’s small and reclusive. Hardly anyone comes here if they can help it.”

Martin turns and looks at the door they came through. It’s a green door with a dull brass handle, set into the side of a two story house, almost hidden by thick, snaking vines and tall bushes. It becomes less noticeable the further they travel from it, swallowed up by undergrowth and the towering trees. “But you did?”

“My grandmother did,” Jon corrects, and when Martin finally looks ahead the other man is lingering on the side of the path, caressing a tree with one hand. “She moved here after the death of her son. I came with her.”

 _Her son._ Martin frowns. _His father?_

“I see,” is what he says, not sure if it would be appropriate to press.

Jon shakes his head and starts forward again. When Martin looks at the tree that he’d paused by, he thinks that he can make out the scuffed edges of an old carving. He can’t be sure, though, not when it’s so faded.

The path winds through the trees, skirting the edge of the lake before diving deeper into the trees, becoming shrouded in shadow. Jon seems unconcerned by the growing darkness, navigating the bumps and dips in the path with ease. Martin sticks close, watching his feet carefully to make sure he doesn’t stumble over anything.

After a few minutes of walking, Jon says, “Don’t worry, we’re close.”

Martin can’t help it. This is the fourth time he’s almost tripped over a root in the path, and he has to keep waving away insects that are trying to bite him. It’s growing darker the more time passes as well, which means that walking is only going to get more difficult. “Close to _where?”_

He’s so distracted watching the path that he almost runs into Jon, who’s stopped dead in his tracks. Two hands reach out and steady him, and when Martin looks down in surprise Jon is staring back, his big dark eyes sheepish and apologetic.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Here, take my arm.”

Martin stares blankly at the extended appendage for a second, processing, wrestling with several revelations at once. The first and foremost of those revelations being that he didn’t realize that _taking Jon’s arm_ was something that would make him short circuit until he was presented with the situation. The second revelation is that he really, _really_ wants to take Jon’s arm, and oh _no._

He’s been skirting around the fact that he maybe likes Jon as more than a friend ever since the whole _Elias_ thing. It wasn’t a thought that he allowed himself to entertain, though, since Jon's heart no longer beats, and is incapable of returning Martin’s feelings even if he wanted to. He wishes that he’d at least acknowledged it earlier though, so the realization felt a little bit less like a direct slap in the face.

He’s been quiet for too long. Jon’s arm lowers a little, the casual tilt of his lips turning downward into something embarrassed and uncertain. “You—you don’t _have_ to, of course, I just thought that it might be easier…”

“It’s fine,” Martin wheezes, wrapping his hand around Jon’s elbow, determined to carry on as though he were still existing in blissful ignorance of his feelings. “Let’s go.”

Jon favors him with a hesitant smile, before lifting his free hand and focusing on the space directly above it. Tiny neon eyes blink into existence on his skin, shining through the sheer fabric of his sleeve, and there’s a quiet hiss of static before a small but bright light appears, throwing the path in stark relief.

“Better?” Jon asks, lowering his hand. The light floats up and over their heads, shining all around them.

Martin sighs and relaxes his grip, letting his fingers settle more naturally into the crook of Jon’s arm. It doesn’t have to be anything if he doesn’t let it. Nothing’s changed except his awareness of his feelings and Jon’s elbow under his touch. “Yeah.”

They continue on like that, tucked up against each other, their surroundings no longer so inscrutable due to the light hovering just over their heads. They must be in the very northern part of Ingary, because Martin recognizes very little of the vegetation surrounding them.

As they travel, though, he begins to notice something strange. First of all, there’s less and less greenery along the trail, replaced by dry, sparse grass and some sort of powdery gravel. Second, the scent of...rotten eggs maybe? Is growing ever stronger as they walk, intensifying as they get nearer to their destination. And the air is warmer too, a sharp contrast from the cool chill of the night.

“Jon?” Martin asks nervously, leaning closer.

Jon shoots him a sly grin. “Do you want to see something amazing?”

Well. As if Martin could say no to that. “Sure.”

“Hold on tight.”

It’s all the warning that Martin gets before they’re airborne, the ground drawing away from their feet. He gasps and clutches at Jon’s arm so tight he must be causing pain, but the wizard seems unruffled, just pats Martin’s hands soothingly.

They drift up, and up, and Martin looks above and gasps at the sight of the billions of twinkling stars set in a cloud of hazy white stretching across the sky. He’s never seen the Milky Way in such splendor before, crystal clear in the chill, and it ignites some profound, yawning sensation of loss that he never knew himself capable of.

“Jon,” he whispers, “the _sky.”_

“I know.” Jon sounds equally breathless. “Look down.”

Martin does without thinking about it, and has to fight a wave of vertigo that has him tightening his grip on Jon’s arm again. He takes a few deep breaths to steady himself before refocusing on the land below him—and pausing.

“That…” he frowns. “That can’t be right. Jon what—what _is_ that? Is it magic?”

“No. This is a field of geysers and sulfur pools caused by the active volcano nearby,” Jon says, voice taking on the lecturing tone he takes when he’s teaching something, still absently patting Martin’s hands. “It’s perfectly safe to look at, though I wouldn’t recommend touching anything. The thing you’re smelling right now is sulfur, and it makes the water dangerously acidic. Plus, it’s boiling hot.”

“Oh,” Martin whispers, staring down at the smoking, deep blue pool directly beneath them. It looks like water, but it still has that acrid smell that reminds him of rotten eggs, which must be the sulfur that Jon was talking about. “Can we get a closer look?”

Jon obligingly brings them closer. Martin studies all the little details of the strange pool, amazed by how clear the liquid is, how vibrant the colors as they transition from bright yellow to a navy so deep and dark it almost appears to be black. He can’t make out the bottom no matter how hard he stares. “Do you know how deep it is?”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s too hot for that. Even Gerry couldn’t get more than a couple of feet beneath the surface.”

Martin boggles. “I see.”

They stare down for a couple more seconds, before Jon says, “Do you want to see a geyser?”

Martin has no idea what that is, but if it’s anything like what Jon’s already shown him, he wants to see it. “Yes, please.”

Jon’s responding smile is so pleased that Martin is _almost_ distracted from his excitement.

“The big one tends to erupt every night,” Jon says as they lift away from the sulfur pool and start drifting in a seemingly random direction. “I hope that it hasn’t gone off yet. The little ones are more frequent, but they’re not quite as impressive.”

They continue to travel over the field, aimlessly searching for whatever this ‘geyser’ might be. Now that Martin’s no longer so afraid, his attention keeps bouncing from one thing to another—the velvety sky overhead, the strange, mysterious sulfur pools below, the way the moon makes the silver in Jon’s hair glow. It’s almost too much, and he has to close his eyes for a second to keep from getting overwhelmed.

Jon finally pauses, apparently finding what he was looking for. “Look, there.”

Martin opens his eyes and looks in the direction that Jon is pointing, frowning when he sees nothing except for a strange mound in the earth giving off thick clouds of steam.

“Jon, I don’t—”

He abruptly cuts off when a column of water and steam _explodes_ from the ground, shooting high into the air, the cool light of the moon reflecting in fractals of silver light. Smaller droplets break off and sizzle into nothing, creating more steam, which blows in the slight breeze like a banner. The air tastes strongly of that strange, rotten egg smell, but Martin can’t bring himself to care, too mesmerized by the sight in front of him.

The column gives a few more fitful starts, before sinking back to the earth and eventually dissolving back into an unremarkable mound in the earth, sulkily puffing out clouds of sulfurous air. Martin gapes at it, too amazed to speak.

Finally, he manages to pull himself together enough to say, “What the hell was _that?”_

“A geyser,” Jon says, and they start floating back toward the break in the trees where they had come from. Martin watches the field recede, reluctant to take his eyes off this wondrous place for even a second. “It’s—hm. The short of it is, it’s pressurized water. Like, like the tea kettle going off when the water’s boiling.”

“Oh.” He’s not entirely sure how that works, but he’ll take Jon’s word for it. “How do you know all this?”

“Gerry told me about it.” Jon smiles fondly, his eyes going distant with reminiscence. “I’d never been allowed in this area growing up—too dangerous, for obvious reasons—but Gerry flew me out here for my fourteenth birthday and told me all about how it worked. I thought he was just teasing me at first. I had a hard time believing that the world was any bigger than my little hometown.”

Martin imagines a younger Jon standing at the edge of this strange, foreign landscape for the first time, eyes wide with amazement, and smiles. Maybe this field isn’t magic, but he thinks that it might be the closest thing to it.

He’s still relieved to have two feet back on the ground, though.

Jon guides them to a fallen tree near the entrance to the field, and they both sit, looking out over the sandy, gently smoking canvas below and the velvet blanket studded with stars overhead. Martin feels different somehow; windswept without ever having been in freefall, exhilarated despite not having done anything that required bravery.

He still hasn’t let go of Jon. He keeps expecting for Jon to pull away now that they’re no longer in the air, but he seems content to stay arm in arm.

“So…” Jon glances up at Martin from underneath his eyelashes, uncharacteristically shy. “What did you think?”

“That was _amazing,”_ he gushes, unable to come up with anything more eloquent than that. “I don’t—Jon, that was the most amazing thing that I’ve ever seen.”

Jon lets a small, surprised laugh, and Martin wants to store the sound in a bottle and keep it forever. “I thought so too.”

Martin is momentarily struck at how special this must be to Jon—a field that his closest friend showed him on his fourteenth birthday, a short walk from where he was raised. That Jon would choose to show him this—

“Tell me about it,” he finds himself saying.

“Hm?” Jon glances at him, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Martin gestures vaguely at nothing. “What it was like for you here. About...about _you._ I want to know about you.”

Jon’s expression turns quiet and thoughtful at that, his lips pulling down into a frown. It’s not necessarily a no, though, so Martin waits patiently while he decides.

Finally he asks, “Are you sure?”

At Martin’s quick nod, he reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a small, brass locket. He opens it and leans over so that Martin can see the picture, which turns out to be a young family of three. The man is tall, wearing plain, austere clothes and a stern frown, whereas the woman is much shorter and dressed in a vibrant pink and orange dress. She’s smiling, wide and bright, as she holds a sleeping baby swaddled in clean, soft white fabric.

“Your mum and dad?” Martin whispers, faintly awestruck by this moment frozen in time.

“And me. My gran told me that I looked more like my mum, but I inherited my father’s temperament.” Jon sounds vaguely wistful as he speaks. “They both died soon after this photo was taken.”

 _“I’m sorry”_ seems like the wrong thing to say in this situation. Martin stares down at the couple for a moment, at two people who had obviously expected to have more time together, with their _son,_ and can only feel a distant pang of regret.

What comes out is, “You have her smile.”

Jon’s gaze jerks up to meet Martin’s, his eyes wide, lips parted. For a second he wonders if he’s misstepped, if this is where Jon screams at him for being rude—

“Do I?” Jon asks, his voice laden with wonder, reaching up to touch his own cheek.

Martin wishes he was brave enough to tuck Jon’s hair behind his ears, to try and wipe away that yearning for two people he never got the chance to truly know. Instead he nods wordlessly.

Jon’s fingers linger for a second, his eyes still fixed on his mother and father.

And then he begins to talk. About growing up in this tiny village with his gran, and how she never quite knew what to do with a child in her old age. About cooking lessons sitting on the counter, about weeding the garden in companionable silence, about books that could only keep him entertained for so long. About how the other kids used to think him odd and annoying for his relentless, invasive questions. About Gerry, who traveled the world, but eventually always came home to Jon with some new fantastical story spilling from his lips. About how he eventually promised to take Jon with him.

It’s only when Martin yawns for the third time that Jon finally laughs and says, “I think that it’s time to go home.”

Martin opens his mouth to protest, but finds himself cracking another yawn before he can even get a word out. Sheepish at how tired he became in such a short span of time, he nods and lets Jon pull them to their feet.

They travel back to the castle in silence, the bright light still illuminating the path before them, chasing away the threatening shadows. Martin, still a little breathless, still a little exhilarated, dares to tuck Jon a little closer. If anyone asks, Martin will just say that it’s a bit chilly out, and Jon forgot to put on an overcoat so he _must_ be cold.

Jon doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, he follows the motion, leaning his head against Martin’s shoulder with a tiny, relaxed sigh.

(Later that night, once more ensconced under a warm, heavy quilt, Martin opens his poetry notebook and writes, _Can a heart explode like a geyser?_ as an opening stanza. For once, the words come quickly, easily, and before he knows it he’s written his first poem for the first time in what feels like forever.

And just like that, something slots neatly back into place.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember when howl showed sophie his home in the movie?
> 
> i was like. "what if i escalated. **geysers."**


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some minor warnings for mentions of violence and killing (this chapter gets into the history of ingary and the monster invasion of the capital), lmk if i need to tag anything else!

“Are you ready?” Jon asks, glancing toward Martin and Gerry.

From the lower landing of the stairs leading to the second story of the castle, Martin nods, while Gerry gives him a supportive thumbs up.

Daisy doesn’t seem too bothered by these proceedings, just gives them all a dry, unimpressed look, which is a very strange expression to see on a dog. Her legs are folded neatly in front of her, and her long, dark brown tail is curled loosely at her side, making her look almost stately. If nothing else, she has adapted to being a dog remarkably well.

“Alright,” Jon lifts his hands, and a bright, neon green eye blinks open on his cheekbone, his neck, peeking over the dip of his shirt collar. “Stand back.”

A couple of seconds later, Daisy kneels on the ground, her hands magically bound in front of her, human once more. Her hair is sticking up in all directions, like she’s been running her hands through it, but she seems otherwise unchanged.

Then she looks up, and Martin pauses. Because the obvious suspicion, the determined stubbornness that she’d worn upon first coming here, is nowhere to be seen. She sits back on her haunches, studying the three of them with her dark brown eyes, her mien thoughtful and calm.

Jon seems to realize that something is different as well, because he lowers his hands slowly, cautiously, in case of any unexpected danger. “Daisy,” he says. “We wanted to see if you’d changed your mind.”

She’s quiet for a moment, still watching. Somehow, that makes Martin even more nervous than when she’d visibly hated their guts. At least then they knew to be wary of attack, of an enemy in their midst. This Daisy, quietly observant, is an unknown variable, a quantity which they can’t predict the actions of.

Then Daisy says, “I don’t make deals with criminals.”

Jon scowls and opens his mouth to respond, but Daisy shakes her head and adds, “But you’re kind of a shitty criminal.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut with an audible _click,_ and his eyes go wide, clearly taken aback by this backhanded compliment. Martin feels equally stunned, having thought that Daisy wasn’t the type to change her mind like that. Even Gerry looks pleasantly surprised by this turn of events.

Daisy shifts, pulling her feet around so they’re crossed in front of her, looking for all the world like she’s in the middle of a cordial chat. “I’m going to give you one chance to talk. If I like your explanation enough, maybe we can revisit that deal that you offered.”

Jon visibly wavers, his fingertips twitching at his sides like he’s trying to keep from wringing them. He shifts from one side to the other, opens and shuts his mouth a few times, before eventually deciding on, “I’m going to confer with my companions for a moment. Please excuse me.”

Then he practically runs up to the landing and inserts himself between Martin and Gerry, wrapping his arms around their backs and drawing them into a huddle. Martin tries very hard not to be distracted by how good it feels to be this close to Jon.

Jon gives them all a slightly panicked look. “What should I say?”

“Before that,” Gerry interjects, frowning. “Are we really buying this?”

“I mean, why wouldn’t we?”

They both turn to look at Martin, Jon wearing a frown of consternation, Gerry faintly skeptical, like he doesn’t think that he’s going to agree with whatever is about to be said but is willing to hear him out anyway. Not long ago, their twin stares would be enough to make Martin nervous, but right now it doesn’t bother him at all.

“We know that she’s been watching us. Is it that strange that she’d change her mind about whether or not we’re evil?”

Gerry looks dubious. “She’s one of Elias’. It’s unlikely.”

“But not impossible,” Jon adds, a light of hope entering his eyes. He jostles Gerry’s shoulder a little, giving him a pleading look. “Come on. Do we really want to squander an opportunity like this if it’s genuine? What would we lose, anyway?”

Over the past few weeks, Martin has slowly been coming to the realization that Gerry is more or less defenseless toward Jon’s big, dark eyes. It’s a weakness that Martin is (unfortunately) coming to share. He wavers, his orange eyes flickering with tongues of gold, the air around him boiling with uncertainty.

Finally he lets out a defeated sigh and waves his free hand in a _you win_ sort of gesture. “Fine. Let’s see what happens.”

Jon smiles and squeezes Gerry’s shoulder...before he turns and favors Martin with a strange, intense look.

“What?” he asks nervously.

Jon wets his lips. There’s a struggle going on behind his eyes, some decision that he’s wavering on. “I think that I want you to hear this too, Martin.”

Martin hesitates, suddenly realizing that he has no idea what Jon is planning on telling Daisy. Well, obviously he’s planning on telling her something that would convince her that he isn’t a criminal, but Martin has no idea what that information would entail.

“Sure,” he says, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice.

Jon squeezes his shoulder as well, before letting go and wheeling toward Daisy, his movements ablaze with energy. When she recoils with surprise, he hesitates, coughs into his fist, and continues the rest of the way down the stairs in a calm and dignified manner. Martin has to bite down a smile as he and Gerry follow.

Gerry crawls into the fire while Martin takes a seat next to the hearth, laying his arm across the stone, taking comfort in the warmth. If Daisy actually does mean them harm, he’s reassured by the fact that there is very little she could do under Gerry and Jon’s watchful eyes.

“I’ll take you up on that offer, Daisy,” Jon says. Martin instinctively straightens when he hears the sudden weight in Jon’s voice, the commanding tone that demands attention. “I can only hope that you’ll be amenable to negotiation after this.”

Daisy shifts, but if she’s nervous or uncertain, she’s got a great poker face. “We’ll see.”

Jon takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. The fire shifts and coils, and in the hearth, Gerry’s face is suddenly painted with dark shadow. The air in the room feels heavier, the borders between dark and light more dramatically stark, and Martin’s breath catches in his chest, his body leaning forward with anticipation.

 _“What do you know,”_ Jon begins, his voice overlapping with that familiar susurrus of hissing, _“about the invasion of the capital?”_

* * *

One hundred years ago, the capital of Ingary was a bright, bustling hub of trade and commerce. It had been growing rapidly ever since its founding on the longest river in the continent, the Callia river, which passed from their northernmost neighbor, Silver Plain, to their southernmost neighbor, Strangia. Ingary was the linchpin of the trade within the region, and therefore had never had to worry about attack, lest the attacking country incur the wrath of every other nearby country.

They had a standing army, but it was inexperienced and not known for its discipline. It had a wall, but the gates were constantly left open to allow merchants and consumers to enter and exit with ease. To say that Ingary was unprepared for an attack of any large scale would be an understatement. 

So understandably, the response to the monster invasion was one of confusion and disarray, of a staggering level of disorganization. The alarm sounded well after the invasion had begun. People who didn’t understand what was going on left their homes to try and see what the commotion was, and quickly ended up dead. The army was scattered and disorganized, and were more harmful than helpful.

That was when Jonah Magnus, most powerful wizard of his generation—and, some claim, most powerful wizard in the world—left the palace. He met the incoming invasion just as they were crossing the threshold of the courtyard, blazing with righteous power, felling hundreds with a wave of his hand. Some stories claim that it was effortless, casual, as easy as breathing. Others claim that it took Jonah Magnus everything he had, and that he finished the fight bruised and bloody, half fainting with magical exhaustion.

However it actually happened, the final result was this: Jonah Magnus became the most well-known hero in Ingary’s history, and the capital swore to never be caught off guard again.

…

Except.

There’s always more to a story than meets the eye, isn’t there? Some fresh horror that the _dramatis personae_ try to conceal to make their actions more palatable. To absolve themselves of their guilt, to unburden themselves of the consequences of their actions.

Let us then ask: who was Jonah Magnus?

He was a man, that much is plain. A powerful man, so much so that he seemed otherworldly at times, but a man nonetheless. A man who was bound by the restraints of his humanity, the limitations of his body and mind.

Jonah Magnus was a man. And as all men do, Jonah Magnus was dying. Not immediately, no, probably not for many years—but time was passing, and he could feel age like a disease in his bones. And much like all men, Jonah Magnus did not want to shuffle off of his mortal coil. He had submitted to no one else before; not the king, not his suitors, not the other magic users who believed themselves to be his match. He had no intention of submitting to his mortality.

Jonah had also reached the apex of his power. Humans are born with a set amount of magic, and are incapable of achieving any more without violating the taboos. He found this limitation deeply frustrating, as what was the point of working hard if your efforts came to nothing? Why should his potential be limited?

He was the most powerful wizard of his generation, but objectively, his magical career had been boring _._ His many accomplishments seemed like petty trifles compared to what he could accomplish if he just had more _power._

So he hatched a plan. There had to be some way to circumvent the taboos, to shatter that which threatened to hold him back. And the being that was most likely to know how to do that? Why, the being of knowledge, of course. The Beholding, the Eye, the Ceaseless Watcher, It Knows You.

So on one calm, summer’s day, Jonah Magnus descended into the lower level of the palace. He shut the door behind him and spelled the lock, to ensure that no one would follow.

And then he called the Beholding to him.

The Beholding answered him, as expected. He negotiated with the Beholding, promising whatever it liked in exchange for power, in exchange for the answers he so desperately desired. And the Beholding, which was bored and curious and spilling over with magic, agreed.

However _unlike_ what he expected, the Beholding’s minions also answered him, swarming the capital, slaughtering civilians and soldiers alike in their desperation to reach their master. (A small price to pay, Jonah reasoned.)

He met them before they were able to reach the palace and impressed upon them the new state of affairs. They agreed to stop attacking the city and melted into the ground, like they had been nothing more than a passing nightmare.

Jonah Magnus was hailed as a hero, and in his mind, he was. He would use his newfound power to hold onto his position within the palace, which would maintain stability throughout the kingdom. He would gift the royal family with his wisdom, and guide them through whatever disasters befell their country.

What happened to the Beholding, one might ask?

Well, it never left, of course. It lives beneath the palace, in a room that only Jonah Magnus, who now goes under the pseudonym Elias Bouchard, knows about.

It’s an interesting story. It certainly sheds some light on the Hero of Ingary, Jonah Magnus, who is actually not much of a hero at all. It reveals the truth of Elias Bouchard’s identity.

But why is this relevant?

First I must ask you: what price did Jonah Magnus pay in exchange for power? Or more appropriately, what price did Jonah Magnus make _other people_ pay in exchange for power?

The Magnus Institute is a sprawling organization with branches in almost every major city in Ingary. It is ruled under the aegis of the royal magical advisor, Elias Bouchard, and was originally founded by Jonah Magnus less than a year after the invasion of the capital. It is a place of knowledge, a place of learning and watching.

Every year, an employee of the Magnus Institute goes missing. It goes unnoticed, as it’s never from the same city twice in a row. This is not a coincidence.

Humans are such singular creatures, you see. They’re capable of magic like a magical creature, but are bound by different laws. Their minds are more complex than even they realize, and are capable of a seemingly limitless variety of thoughts and ideas. They can be breathtakingly good, breathtakingly kind, and they can be staggering cruel and evil.

And the Eye, the Beholding, is fascinated by them. It wants to understand, though it will never. It cannot comprehend the depths of the human soul, the labyrinthine turns of the mind, the soaring heights of emotion. It cannot understand, but it tries its best, devouring human after human, cracking them open like a geologist does a geode. And then, once the Eye is finished, it bestows Jonah Magnus with its victim’s magic, increasing his already bloated stores of power.

And so it devours.

* * *

Martin is so caught up in the story that he doesn’t realize that Jon has stopped talking until several seconds after the fact. The shadows return to normal, though, the weight in the air lifting, and he feels like he can breathe freely once more. The tale had felt so _real,_ almost like he was experiencing it as it was happening, feeling the terror and the fear of the citizens, the cold, slimy greed of Jonah Magnus. And speaking of...

Jonah Magnus. Everyone in the country knows that name, knows about the man who prevented the fall of the capital. Martin almost doesn’t want to believe it, but—no. Something about the way the story was told makes him think that Jon couldn’t have lied, like there was some magical boundary preventing him from doing so.

Jon lets out a low, quiet sigh, the susurrus absent from his voice, and slowly sits on the edge of the hearth. Martin mentally frowns when the man wavers imperceptibly, and Gerry drifts forward and lays his hand on Jon’s back as though to steady him, before retreating once more.

Whatever that was, it took something out of Jon.

“That—” Daisy wets her lips, looking a little shaken. Then she gathers up the threads of her composure and weaves them back together, once more projecting an uncaring facade. “It’s an interesting story, but it doesn’t explain why you’re not a criminal.”

“It does, actually,” Jon says, rubbing his hands together as though they’re cold. Gerry reaches out and touches Jon’s back again, letting his hand rest there comfortingly. “I’m unusual, even for a human. I can use all fourteen affinities, and I follow a different set of magical laws. Not only that, but my capacity for magic is large. Elias tried to bind me to the Eye so that they could….study me. He eventually meant to try and replicate my abilities, or at the very least use me as a...a magical battery, more or less.”

Shit. _Shit._ The thought of Jon being chained to the Eye, to _Elias,_ is a horrifying one. No wonder he’d been so terrified of the idea of going back.

“Wait a second,” Martin bursts out, a thought suddenly occurring to him, “Jon, is that what happened that day? Did the Eye try to eat me?”

Jon shoots him a surprised glance, as though he’d forgotten that Martin was there, before frowning thoughtfully. Recognition enters his eyes, and he nods. “I’d almost forgotten. Yes, the Eye tried to eat you the day that we met.”

“Huh.” Martin’s not sure how he feels about that. On the one hand, he’s not dead; on the other, _he was almost eaten by an omniscient demigod._

“Don’t worry,” Gerry says cheerfully. “You’re not in danger anymore.”

Martin frowns and opens his mouth—

“Do you have any evidence?” Daisy asks coolly, drawing the conversation back on topic. “Right now it’s your word against his.”

Gerry’s expression goes from pleasantly neutral to miffed in the blink of an eye. “It was a _Story,_ told with the assistance of the Eye. He couldn’t have lied.”

Daisy shrugs. “It’s _his_ truth, but it’s not necessarily _the_ truth.”

Jon glances over at Martin, who shrugs uncomfortably. He has no idea how Jon’s supposed to go about convincing this person that he’s telling the truth.

Unexpectedly, Gerry lays his hands on Jon’s shoulder, and whispers something into his ear. Jon gives the hearthkeeper a thoughtful look, before turning back to Daisy. “Can you See?”

Daisy’s frown deepens. “Of course.”

“Look at my curse.”

Daisy shuts her eyes briefly, forehead wrinkling in concentration. Then she opens them again, focusing her sharp gaze on Jon’s chest, where Martin knows the curse extends from his chest, into the far distance. After a few breathless seconds, the spark fades from her eyes, and she shakes her head. “I’m not sure that I believe everything about Elias, but you’ve convinced me that you’re not a criminal at least. I believe that I owe you an apology.”

Martin exhales, relieved.

“You owe us quite a bit more than that,” Gerry responds coolly.

“I’ll swear a magically binding oath if you wish.” Daisy seems unconcerned by Gerry’s suspicion, shrugging one shoulder. “Is that acceptable?”

“It is,” Jon says quickly, hopping down from the hearth (and taking a moment to steady himself). “The conditions still stand—”

“—and I accept them, but I can’t promise that I won’t break them unwillingly.” she shakes her head impatiently. “From what you’ve told me about Elias, he doesn’t seem like the type to play fair.”

“That’s…” Jon falters. “That’s a good point, actually.”

Daisy finally extends her hands in Jon’s direction. “So long as you understand.”

He nods wordlessly in response, before stepping forward and taking Daisy’s hands in his own. Martin sees Gerry tense out of the corner of his eye, like the hearthkeeper is planning on leaping out of the fire and spiriting Jon away the second he gets a whiff of any foul play.

The susurrus once more fills the room, magic so thick that Martin can almost taste it. Jon’s hair begins to blow gently, as though it’s touched by a breeze. “Daisy, do you swear not to _willingly_ give Elias Bouchard or any one of his other aliases or one of his men information regarding myself, one of my companions, or any of our abodes?”

“I do so swear.”

Martin almost leaps out of his skin at the sound of something shattering, like glass being thrown against a wall.

“Do you swear not to willingly lead Elias or any of his men to the location of myself, one of my companions, or one of our abodes?”

“I do so swear.”

Again, the sound of glass shattering. A strong wind blows through the room, ruffling their hair, causing the flames to flicker.

“Do you swear not to harm myself or one of my companions in any capacity?”

Martin frowns at the lack of the word _willingly,_ which Jon had been so careful to include in the first two conditions. Daisy and Jon stare at each other, the former expressionless, the latter resolute.

“I do so swear,” Daisy says finally.

Jon nods, tight and perfunctorily, as the air shatters one last time. There’s a pulse of magic, then another—and it’s only then that Martin thinks to open his Sight, to see what sort of bond this might look like.

The first thing that he Sees is Gerry’s magic blanketing the room, extended far beyond its natural boundaries, which means that he’s been posturing this _entire time._ Martin shakes his head, bemused, before turning to face Jon and Daisy. Their joined hands are woven through with a thick layer of pure, bright silver threads, almost like...a spiderweb. The silver threads coil loosely around their arms, their necks, and even as Martin watches, the Web continues to bind them tighter together..

He turns off his sight again, once more focusing on their physical forms. Daisy looks unconcerned, but Jon—his brows are furrowed with concentration, staring very hard at nothing in particular.

Martin hasn’t thought about the neon green eyes before, and what connection they might have to the Eye and his curse, but—that’s not normal. Elias hadn’t had those markings when he used his magic, so what do they mean? A visible sign of his binding to the Eye?

Finally, Jon releases Daisy’s hands, letting his arms drop back to his sides. He takes a step back, not even bothering to hide the wobble in his knees. Martin steps forward and helps Jon walk to the hearth, where he almost collapses into a sitting position, face drawn. Gerry fully crawls out of the fire and lets Jon use him as a support, still not looking at Daisy.

“Okay,” Daisy says after a moment, straightening up and shaking her hands out, apparently having been released from her bindings.

“So now what?” Martin asks, cautiously curious.

Daisy rubs her wrists and leans against the bannister leading to the exit of the castle, expression thoughtful. “I need to get in contact with Basira—my partner, that is. If everything that you said about Elias is true, then he can’t be allowed to continue.”

“You’ll need to be careful,” Jon warns. “If he knows that you’re moving against him, he’ll use everything that he can against you.”

Daisy gives him an unimpressed glare. “You let _me_ worry about that. Seems that you have enough problems of your own.”

Jon looks faintly taken aback by that, like he’s not quite sure what to do with her harsh almost-concern.

Gerry is the one who speaks, apparently feeling a bit more charitable toward Daisy now that he’s no longer suspicious of her motives. “You can’t go back to the capital. That’s where he has the most power. He’ll know if you’re planning something.”

Daisy scowls and folds her arms over her chest. “Well, what do you suggest that I do? I need to get in contact with my partner. I can’t just leave her in the dark.”

They’re all quiet for a second, thinking.

An idea occurs to Martin. He looks up, studying the faces of all the other occupants, checking to see whether or not they have any other ideas—but no, they all look stumped.

He lets out a quiet sigh, before loudly clearing his throat, causing all three gazes to focus on him at once. “How would you feel about waiting at my old house in Ilar? It’s not like I sleep there anymore, anyway.”

He almost misses the wide-eyed look that Jon shoots him when he says that. He doesn’t have time to wonder what it could mean, however, because Daisy is rubbing her chin consideringly. “Could work,” she says, shooting Gerry a questioning look.

He nods. “It’s far enough away that he wouldn’t just be able to _know_ that you were planning something.”

Daisy pushes away from the banister with a low sigh. “We’ll only stay for a day or two, just so I can catch Basira up on all of this and plan our next move before heading back to the capital.” she hesitates, before adding, “I...I appreciate it. You didn’t have to do this, not after everything.”

Jon gives her a small, tired smile. “If you want to make it up to us, take down Elias. That's where you start.”

The smile Daisy gives them in response is sharp, all vicious teeth and malintent. Despite everything, Martin feels a ripple of unease down his spine, like he’s staring into the face of a predator. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

* * *

“Are you sure he won’t mind me coming over?”

Martin pauses in the middle of undoing the lock on his front door to give Georgie a reassuring smile. She looks like a vision in her purple and gold sundress and intricately detailed headscarf that perfectly complements her dark skin. “He’s thrilled, don’t worry.”

He’s not even exaggerating. When he mentioned that he was friends with Georgie, Jon’s eyes had gone wide, and he’d immediately starting babbling a rapid series of questions—how was she doing, what she was up to, that sort of thing. Apparently one of his greatest regrets regarding his flight from the capital was the fact that he never got to explain why he was leaving to Georgie, or at least say goodbye.

When Martin had asked if it was alright to bring Georgie over, Jon had gone all quiet, before nodding vigorously and adding, “If she wants to see me.”

Georgie smiles, though there’s still a touch of nerves hiding in the corners of her eyes. Martin wishes he knew what to say to make her feel better, but he doesn’t, so he just turns back to the door.

They step into the living room, and immediately pause. Daisy, who’d been sitting at the dinner table, a book propped open in front of her, looks up and raises an eyebrow at them. Martin is suddenly struck by how intimidating she is upon first glance—she’s wearing a loose cotton shirt that displays all the muscles in her biceps and forearms, and her many scars ripple and pucker with every movement.

“Problem?” Daisy asks, her eyes flicking up and down Georgie, giving her a quick once over.

“Not at all,” Martin hastens, and glances over at Georgie. To his surprise, he thinks that she’s...blushing? And her eyes are very, very wide. “We were just passing through.”

Georgie lets out a strangled cough, before saying, “I’m a, um, a friend of Jon’s. Georgie Barker.”

Daisy shifts but doesn’t get up. “Alice Tonner. Most people call me Daisy, though.”

“Alright, well, we really best be going.” Martin gives Georgie a nudge, trying to get her to pull herself together a little bit so they can leave.

“Right!” Georgie shakes her head, her expression finally steadying into something more normal. “Yeah, sorry. Nice to meet you, Daisy.”

Daisy grunts, before turning back to her book. Martin ushers Georgie in the direction of the castle, and she’s still so tongue-tied by the encounter with Daisy that she doesn’t even think to accuse him of teasing her when he tells her to go inside the broom closet.

When Georgie and Jon see each other for the first time in almost five years, the look on their faces is nothing short of priceless. They hesitate for only a moment before crossing the room, and then they’re hugging so tightly that Jon’s feet leave the ground.

Georgie sets Jon back down, dashing some of the tears from her eyes. “Jon, I thought that you’d died, someone said that you were a criminal, I didn’t know _—”_

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Jon’s face is stricken, and he looks seconds away from crying himself. “You remember my mentor, Elias, he—he cursed me. I couldn’t stay in the city, I had to leave as quickly as possible.”

“Oh, I _told_ you that he was bad news!” Georgie shakes her head, her happiness momentarily overshadowed by a worn, tired frustration. Then she takes a deep breath and visibly forces herself to relax. “No, you know what—you’ve probably punished yourself enough over it. God, Jon, how have you _been?_ It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Martin leans against the hearth, folding his arms against his chest, happy to watch the two of them talk. It’s obvious how much Georgie has missed Jon, how much she worried about him after his disappearance. It’s equally obvious how much leaving without a word has been eating at Jon, the relief on his face fairly palpable as he speaks.

Gerry emerges from the fire and settles on his elbows next to him, propping his chin on his hand. They sit and watch Jon and Georgie for a moment, thinking their respective thoughts.

“You know, Martin,” Gerry begins quietly, “I don’t think that we’ve ever said thank you.”

“Hm?” Martin glances over at Gerry, confused. “What?”

“All of this,” Gerry makes a vague gesture toward the room at large, “Georgie, helping us out with Elias, everything...you’ve done so much for us. But it’s more than that. You...you make us happy, Martin. Even if you hadn’t done all of those things, even if you were just...living here, we still want you. I don’t know if we’ve ever made that clear.”

Martin’s breath sticks on a lump in his throat, and he ducks his head, suddenly unable to speak. How many years has he longed for someone to say that to him, to tell him that he was wanted for more than what he could provide to others?

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” he whispers.

There’s a feather-light touched on his back, so quick that he almost wonders if he imagined it. But no, there’s still residual heat bleeding through his shirt in the shape of a familiar hand, and it warms him all the way down to his toes. When he turns to glance at Gerry, the hearthkeeper has sunk back into the fire, a small, almost bittersweet smile on his face.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, fighting back the lump in his throat. Then he pushes away, and goes to join Jon and Georgie.

They talk for hours, catching each other up on everything that’s been going on. Georgie has Martin in stitches over some of Jon’s teenage escapades, some of which are far more wild than he’d ever expected. Jon retaliates by describing, in detail, all the terrible dates that Georgie put up with in exchange for free food. Georgie tweaks Jon’s ear when she learns how he treated Martin when they first met, and he ducks his head sheepishly, face flushing.

It’s almost dinner by the time Georgie pauses, checks her watch, and mutters a curse. “Oh no, I’ve got to get going. My family is expecting me for dinner tonight.”

“Oh.” Jon frowns, disappointment obvious on his face. Martin empathizes; it seems like Georgie only just arrived.

Georgie gives Jon a fond glance. “Oh, don’t look like that. You’re not getting rid of me that easily, not when I’ve just found you.”

Relief flickers across Jon’s face, and he nods, rises to his feet, and opens his arms for one last hug.

Once they’ve all said their goodbyes, Martin leads Georgie back down the stairs and holds the door open for her as she walks through. Daisy is nowhere to be seen—probably out shopping, as Martin’s food had all gone bad in his absence. It’s a little bit of a relief that she’s gone, actually. He knows that they’re technically on the same side now, but it doesn’t change the fact that Daisy is deeply intimidating.

“It was really good to see Jon again,” Georgie comments. “And you, of course.”

Martin gives her a pleased smile. “I’m glad.”

Unexpectedly, she reaches out and grabs the sleeve of his shirt, stopping him in place. He blinks at her, surprised, as she chews her lip, looking as though she’s wavering over something.

“Martin,” she says, each word slow and deliberate. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but do you...do you _like_ Jon?”

For a second, Martin’s mind goes blank, except for, _how did she know?_ Then he remembers that he’s the type to wear his heart on his sleeve when it comes to people he’s fond of. He chuckles, aiming for casual, but the sound comes out tinged with hysteria. “That obvious, am I?”

Georgie smiles apologetically. “A bit.”

He sighs, and scrubs his hands roughly over his face. “It’s—nothing’s going to come of it, I _know_ that. He’s cursed! I just…”

“Can’t help what you feel,” she finishes, squeezing his hand sympathetically.

“Yeah.”

They stand in silence for a moment, Martin feeling awful and trying not to feel awful, Georgie thinking quietly, probably trying to come up with some sort of platitude. He appreciates it, he really does, but nothing about this could make it _better._ It just figures that he would fall for the person _literally incapable_ of returning his feelings.

“You know, it’s been a few years, but…I remember what Jon looked like when he fancied someone.”

Martin stares at Georgie, confused. “What?”

“He and I dated for a little while,” she explains, shrugging one shoulder, an old scar she’s long since made peace with. “It didn’t work out. We were better as friends. But I remember what he looked like when he really, _really_ liked someone, and he’s...he’s sort of acting that way around you?”

Martin is shaking his head before she’s even finished talking. “That’s impossible.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Is it?”

He instinctively opens his mouth to argue, before shutting it again. Because while Jon’s not necessarily feeling the emotions themselves, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t _have_ them. His existing bond with Gerry, still strong and bright, is proof of that. And he’s so kind that there’s obviously some part of him, in one capacity or another, that still _tries_ to care.

Georgie squeezes his hand again. “Think about it.”


	15. Chapter 15

Martin wakes up the next morning and simply lies there for a second, tasting the fresh mountain air that blows gently through his cracked window. Dew sits heavy on his tongue, lightened by the faintest hint of grass and wildflowers. The sun peers through his curtains, gentled by the morning mist and the clouds that creep by.

There’s a feeling building in his center, and he puzzles over it for a moment, turning it round and round in his mind, examining its many angles. It’s too kind for a bad emotion, too relaxed for a happy or joyful one. It nestles serenely next to his heart, warm and comfortable, undeniable but unobtrusive in its presence.

After a moment Martin mentally shrugs and gets up, wandering over to the window and pushing it all of the way open. He settles his hands on the ledge, not quite leaning out, and takes a deep, bracing breath of the refreshingly cool air. There’s no urgency to be anywhere, no anxiety over what may or may not come to pass.

The worry will return, he knows himself too well not to know that’s true. But here in the secluded mountains, ensconced in a castle with two of the most powerful, beloved magic users he knows, danger and fear feel so very distant.

Martin finally steps away from the window, grabbing a shawl from the end of his bed and wrapping it around his shoulders. He meanders into the hallway, hiding a jaw-splitting yawn behind his hand, and almost starts heading down the stairs before noticing that the door to Jon’s office is open.

He frowns, sleepily confused.  _ Jon’s awake?  _ He usually doesn’t rise until well after Martin, being the type of person to stay up and wake up late.  _ Maybe he fell asleep at his desk. _

He pats his cheek a few times to try and wake himself up a bit as he pads over to the office and pushes the door open, careful to be quiet in case Jon is napping. It takes a moment for the scene to register, but he finds himself leaning against the doorframe, a quiet sigh slipping out from between his lips.

Sunlight pours through the window in front of the desk, highlighting the scattered dust motes that drift through the air, making the silver in Jon’s loose hair shine like polished metal. He’s standing next to the cauldron, writing something in one of his many notebooks, occasionally leaning over to peer into the bubbling mixture. Every time he does, Martin gets a glimpse of the tiny, focused frown Jon’s wearing, the concentrated furrow of his eyebrows.

After a minute or so Martin shakes himself, embarrassed at himself for staring. He clears his throat and knocks on the doorframe, smiling sheepishly when Jon jumps and turns around. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t go back to sleep,” Jon says, his startled expression fading into a faint smile. “Too much to think about.”

Martin hums and agreement as he walks over to the desk, peering curiously over the edge of the cauldron. The burbling liquid is a pleasant shade of blue with green spiraling through the center, and it smells of sea foam and fresh bread. It’s an odd scent combination, but strangely comforting.

“It’s a tonic for anxiety,” Jon explains without prompting, tucking his hair behind his ear.

“That’ll be…” Martin scrunches his nose, thinking hard. “Web? Well, it has to do with the mind, so….Spiral?”

When he glances over, Jon is watching him with a painfully fond look on his face, like Martin’s interest in magic is somehow endearing. Then he turns back to the notebook, that same smile playing over his lips. “It’s not so clear cut as that. There’s a lot of overlap between affinities, like the Hunt and the Slaughter.”

As Martin watches, Jon’s thick hair escapes from behind his ear, spilling over his face. Jon frowns and tucks it away again, scowling.

Martin finds himself stepping forward, laying his hand over Jon’s arm to still it. “Do you have a hair ribbon?”

Jon gives him an owlish look. “I—what?”

Martin clears his throat, flushing when he realizes how close they’re standing together, his courage withering. “A—a hair ribbon. I can...I can put it up for you?”

“Oh!” Flustered, Jon tugs at the black ribbon coiled around his wrist, avoiding Martin’s gaze. It’s not always easy to tell when Jon is blushing, but Martin thinks that he is. “Oh, yeah, that would be, be, that would be...thank you.”

Martin curls the ribbon around his fingers, before directing Jon to the chair beside the desk. The man sits quickly, back tense, hands curled in his lap.

_ Gerry does this all the time,  _ Martin reminds himself, taking a deep, steadying breath.

Jon shivers at the first gentle touch on his scalp, and Martin almost pulls back—but then Jon relaxes and tilts his head back to give easier access. His hair is thicker and coarser than Martin had expected, and he runs his fingers through it once to get a feel for it, then twice for self-indulgent reasons. To his delight, Jon’s shoulders untense, and he leans back into Martin’s touch, like a spring coming undone.

He starts at the crown of Jon’s head, separating the hair into three strands. It’s been ages since he’s done this, but he used to do it quite a bit when he was still living with his mother—and the thought feels sharp and cruel, so he pushes it away, grounds himself with Jon beneath his fingertips and the sun spilling over the room.

After a moment to get into the rhythm, Martin prompts, “You said that it wasn’t so clear cut?”

Jon hums an agreement, as relaxed as Martin has ever seen him. “Affinities overlap all the time. Gerry once described them as...as colors. Blue and purple are distinct colors, but when they bleed together they make indigo. Obviously opposites have a harder time doing so, like the Buried and the Vast, but the Hunt and the Slaughter, the Spiral and the Stranger…”

“That makes sense.” He’s not sure he can imagine it practically yet, but he understands the concept. He curls another bit of hair around his fingers and tucks it into place, pulling it as tight as he can without it being painful. Jon’s appearance is always so tidy, he wants to make sure that it looks just right.

He pauses when a thought occurs to him. “Does...does that make you a color wheel?”

Jon almost turns around, but is gently halted by Martin’s hands still tangled up in his hair. “What?”

“You can use all fourteen affinities,” he explains, finishing off the end of the braid and tying a simple, sweet bow around the end to hold it in place. He has to stop himself from dropping a kiss on the crown of Jon’s head. “Does that make you a color wheel? Or a painter?”

Jon reaches over and feels the end of his braid, before pulling it over one shoulder and turning to look at Martin. His eyes are brimming with a mix of amusement and incredulity, like he can’t believe that he’s having this conversation. “I—I guess I’ve never thought about it before. I suppose...that a painter would be more apt.”

Martin lets out a laugh, aware of how absurd that is and not caring in the slightest. The unobtrusive emotion nestled beside his heart billows, and he feels as though he’s about to overflow with it, and—

He recognizes the feeling all of a sudden; he doesn’t think that he’s ever been so content, so at peace with his place in the world. There is the persistent, steady certainty that he is exactly where he is supposed to be. Even if Jon never returns his feelings, even if he nurses his aching heart for the rest of his life, he thinks that he can be happy here, for as long as he is allowed to stay.

It’s this thought that prompts him to gently cup Jon’s cheek, tilt his head up, and press a kiss to his hairline. When he pulls away, Jon is staring at him with wide, moonlike eyes, lips parted in shock.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” Martin promises, and makes his escape.

* * *

Gerry isn’t in the hearth.

Martin frowns, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, unease settling like a lead weight in his stomach. Gerry tends not to leave the fire unless someone else gives him a reason to do so, and Jon and Sasha are in the middle of work. It’s not that he’s worried for his safety—Gerry is one of the most powerful magic users he knows, after all, but...

“Jon?” Martin calls, leaning out of the doorframe and into the balmy Rollins afternoon.

Jon looks up, an expression of polite interest on his face. The mannequin also turns from where he’s seated between Jon and Sasha, his blank face somehow conveying a sense of bright curiosity. “Yes?”

(Martin is deeply grateful that Jon still hasn’t brought up the kiss from a few days ago. He’s still not entirely sure what explanation he would give.)

“You haven’t seen Gerry anywhere, have you?”

Jon frowns. “He’s not in the hearth?”

Martin shakes his head, and the frown deepens even further. Jon closes his eyes, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration, and Martin curiously Looks to see what’s going on. The bright gold bond that represents Gerry and Jon’s bond stretches off into the castle, pulsing rhythmically like some living, breathing thing. He’s not entirely sure what the pulsing means, but he has a feeling that Jon’s using the bond to figure out where Gerry is.

After a few seconds, Jon opens his eyes, and Martin reflexively turns off his Sight. “He’s upstairs, on the balcony connected to my room.”

“Oh.” Martin blinks in confusion. He didn’t even realize there was a balcony connected to Jon’s room.

Jon begins rolling the cuff of his sleeve between his fingers, expression distant and worried. “Actually, Martin, could you go find him?”

Well  _ that’s  _ alarming. “Is he okay?”

“No,” Jon immediately shakes his head, tapping his heel up and down, up and down. Then his expression twists in consternation, and he speaks slowly, picking each word with careful precision. “Yes. No. He’s...he just, he gets…he feels trapped sometimes. He misses the sky.”

Oh.

“I’ll find him,” Martin promises, and heads back up the stairs.

He’s never been in Jon’s room before. Not because it’s intimidating or anything—Martin has long since moved past being intimidated by Jon—but because he’s never had a reason to. He’s not the type to go snooping if he hasn’t been given permission; he respects Jon’s privacy too much to do that.

The room is perhaps a bit bigger than Martin’s, and is far more spartan than he had expected it to be. There’s a wooden bed taking up one corner of the room, covered by what looks to be a handmade pink and orange quilt. Beside the door, there’s a handsome wardrobe, topped with a small, intricately carved elephant and a jewelry box inlaid with gold. The elaborate carpet on the floor provides some color, but other than that the room lacks decoration or accent.

Martin takes a deep, steadying breath, before crossing the room and climbing the short stairs up to the balcony. The doors to the small space have been thrown open, the sheer curtains blowing in the buffeting wind. This must be the highest place in the whole castle, and it feels like it; the ground rolls nauseatingly with every movement, and the wind steals Martin’s breath away almost before he can take it.

Gerry is folded up against the edge of the balcony, head tilted toward the sky, hair whipping around him in streamers of flame. His eyes are closed, so still he could almost be mistaken for a statue.

Martin clears his throat. “Gerry?”

“Did Jon send you?” It’s not accusing or sharp, but the words still bite somehow. “I’m fine. You can go.”

“He’s worried about you,” Martin allows, slowly making his way to the railing beside Gerry. His head spins dizzily at the sight of the ground so far below him, but he holds his ground. “So am I.”

Gerry hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t respond.

“You…” Martin wets his lips. He’s never seen this side of Gerry before, closed off and unwelcoming. “Are you upset?”

A sigh bursts from Gerry’s lips, so sudden that Martin almost jumps at the sound of it. Then he shakes his head, a frustrated frown curling the corners of his mouth. “I’m not  _ upset,  _ but I’m not going to be very good company right now, either.”

“Oh.” Martin doesn’t entirely know what to do with the first bit, so he decides to only respond to the second. “I’d rather be miserable together, if it’s all the same to you.”

That draws a short, sharp bark of laughter, and Martin smiles at the victory.

They stand in silence for a few moments longer, staring out over the Wastes as they pass by. Now that Martin’s feeling for it, he thinks that the castle is moving faster than usual, the gait less smooth, like a ship encountering choppy water.

“...is this what it’s like?” he asks. “Flying?”

Gerry shakes his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “Not at all.”

“Oh.”

Martin wishes there was a script for this sort of thing, a way to draw the infection out of what are obviously some very old wounds.

“I’m not upset,” Gerry clarifies again.

Martin swallows. “Okay.”

“It’s just—we’re all so small. Everyone is so  _ small  _ and they don’t even realize it half the time.” Gerry shakes his head, running his hand through his hair. “If you look down from here, all the little details are so miniscule, it’s impossible to tell anything apart.”

Martin’s not entirely sure what Gerry is trying to get at, but he obligingly leans over the edge, studying the ground. It’s true that it’s hard to see anything from this distance; the grass blends together in wave after rippling wave, the only disruption the tiny spots of color that must be flowers.

“It’s a long way down,” he hedges.

“Imagine how it must look from the sky. Imagine how—how  _ tiny  _ everything is from up there. The world bleeds together like...like watercolors.”

Martin thinks about that for a moment, and cautiously says, “Sounds lonely.”

Gerry shoots him a wry smile. “You’d think so, but it really isn’t. See, the thing is, no matter how small we are, we’re all living under the same sky. We all—we’re all connected, no matter how far apart we are. Flying, it’s...it’s addicting. You can look down and just see  _ everything. _ There are geysers and volcanoes and people going about their daily lives, but it’s all the same thing. It’s all action and reaction. I miss it.”

What are you even supposed to  _ say  _ to something like that? He can’t relate to the feeling that Gerry is describing, and expressing his condolence feels too cheap. He wavers for a moment, biting his lip, before settling on, “...oh.”

When Martin glances over, Gerry is smiling at him, amused and weary, which somehow makes Martin feel even more awful. “I told you I wasn’t going to be very good company right now.”

Martin chokes on a despairing laugh. “It’s—it’s fine. I did ask.”

Gerry hums a quiet, unhappy agreement before falling silent again. Martin begins to wonder about how long it’s been since Gerry was last in the fire, how much longer he can remain here before he has to go back down, but—but no.

Martin hasn’t thought about how hard it must be to be trapped in the castle, to be limited to one space. He can come and go as he pleases, but Gerry doesn’t have that, does he? He used to be able to fly, to go wherever he pleased, and now he can only stand on the edge of the balcony and stare at the distant ground with wistful orange eyes.

“Gerry,” Martin begins, voice small, and bites his lip.

Gerry looks up. “Hm?”

He’s been thinking this for a while, but it’s never bothered him as much as it does in this moment. “I don’t...you asked me to help you with your curse, but—but I don’t know how to help you. I don’t think I  _ can  _ help you. I’m not—I’m not powerful like you or Jon, or clever like Sasha, I’m just—I’m just  _ Martin.”  _ he shakes his head, dragging his fingers through his curls, and repeats, “I’m just Martin.”

“That’s...Martin, that’s the point.”

Martin looks up, blinking at the burn forming behind his eyes. “What?”

Gerry turns and folds his arms over the railing, leaning against it with a sigh. “I told you that my eyes are different from Jon’s, but I didn’t tell you  _ how.  _ I can see...potential.  _ Possibility.  _ And looking at you that first time, I felt something important. Somehow, just by being Martin, you’re going to change things. You already  _ have.” _

Martin gapes, feeling as though he’s just been punched in the stomach. “I—what? So you never—”

“Expected you to figure out how to break the curse? No.” Gerry shakes his head, unconcerned. “I know our reputation. You wouldn’t have trusted anything that looked like a onesided deal.”

“But that doesn’t scare you?” he knows there’s desperation creeping into his tone, but he doesn’t  _ care,  _ not when he’s being overcome by the breathless realization that he is going to  _ matter,  _ that there is some responsibility that he has to fulfill and he doesn’t even know what it is. “Change isn’t always a good thing, Gerry, what if I make things  _ worse?” _

“Of course it scares me.”

Martin falls silent.

Gerry meets his eyes, before turning to look out over the mountains. “The last time I felt something like this was when we met Elias. At first, I just wanted to keep an eye on you. But...then Jon and I came to care for you, and...you wouldn’t hurt us on purpose. Whatever is coming, we’ll face it together.”

Martin hesitates, before turning and following Gerry’s gaze, staring unseeingly at the snow-capped mountain peaks, at the fluffy clouds that drift by. He feels as though his world just tilted on its axis, and his view is slotting back into place, a couple of degrees off from familiar.

Then Martin laughs again, dry and humorless. At Gerry’s prompting glance, he elaborates, “I came up here to comfort you, not to be comforted.”

Gerry’s answering laugh takes all the wind out of Martin’s sails, making him feel less overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the uncertain future. “Miserable together, remember?”

* * *

Daisy’s partner turns out to be a tall woman wearing a headscarf that Martin  _ thinks  _ is called a shayla. If he remembers correctly, she’s the other guard from the palace, the one who snapped at Daisy for trying to intimidate him.

“Basira Hussain,” Basira greets, reaching out and giving Martin a firm, deliberate shake. She lacks Daisy’s sharp edges, but there’s still something off-putting about her demeanor. Maybe it’s the way she gives Martin a quick glance before looking away, visibly dismissing him as a non-threat, or the uncomfortably assessing way she examines the room at large.

“Has Daisy filled you in?” Jon asks. He must not like the way she’s looking at them either, because his hands are carefully stiff at his sides, like he’s trying to keep from fidgeting.

Basira shakes her head, giving Daisy a quick, unreadable glance. “She said that it was best if I hear it from you.”

Gerry raises his eyebrows. “That’s generous.”

Daisy shrugs, unperturbed by the pointed comment. “I’m not much of a storyteller.”

Basira shoots Daisy another look, and it’s only because Martin is paying attention that he catches the furrow of her brow. She’s confused by Daisy’s behavior, he realizes. It makes sense; from what little he remembers of the first time he met Daisy, she was cruel and sharp, a far cry from this steady, controlled person.

Jon gives Daisy one last, measuring look, before shrugging and saying, “Alright.”

Whatever mechanism Jon employed to tell the story before, he doesn’t use it this time. Jon tells it well, certainly, but it lacks that strange, magical quality. Regardless, Basira is rapt, taking in every word with a quiet focus that conveys a mind that is quickly processing and cross-examining every word that she’s hearing.

After he finishes, she simply sits quietly, tapping a rapid, senseless rhythm on the arm of her chair. Her dark eyes are as unreadable as two obsidian chips.

After a moment, she nods and says, “I believe you.”

Jon’s eyebrows fly up. “What?”

Daisy almost jumps out of her chair, staring at Basira in shock.  _ “What?” _

“I’d noticed that there was something odd about Elias—Jonah, I suppose,” she explains, meeting Daisy’s gaze calmly. “I started to discreetly look into his background a few weeks ago, and there were too many discrepancies that went beyond simple corruption or tax fraud or...whatever. It makes sense.”

Daisy couldn’t have looked more taken aback if Basira had punched her right in the face. “Why—why didn’t you  _ say  _ anything?”

Basira gives Daisy an incredulous look. “You’ve worked for Elias for a lot longer than I have. Who would you have trusted: him, who kept you happily busy with all the criminals you could ever want for  _ years _ , or me?”

Daisy’s face twists, brow darkening, and Martin shifts uncomfortably, the air fairly snapping with sudden tension. Basira doesn’t react, except for a subtle tightening of her jaw.

Then Daisy pauses. Looks around the room, from Martin, to Gerry’s bright yellow eyes, to Jon, to Basira, still seated in the chair. She takes a deep breath, then another, the anger slipping back into careful control. “You’re right. But spending a week as a dog kind has put some things into perspective for me. I trust you, Basira, and I’m sorry that I made you feel like I didn’t.”

Basira’s expression is a mixture of surprised, relieved, and confused. “I...appreciate that, but what do you  _ mean  _ you spent a week as a dog?”

“This is nice and all, but you two can catch up later,” Gerry interrupts, his jaw tight. “What’s your plan?”

Daisy and Basira glance at each other. Basira raises one thick eyebrow, and Daisy shrugs her shoulders and nods. Then Daisy turns to him and says, “Take down Elias.”

“We’re not sure how yet,” Basira adds, her gaze fixed on Jon, “But if you’re as good as Daisy says you are, we could probably use two magic users like you on our side.”

Martin glances at Jon as well, worrying his lip.

The relationship between Jon and Elias is far more complicated than Basira or Daisy realize. Elias isn’t just the person who cursed Jon; he’s also the person who shattered Jon’s trust, and made Gerry so overprotective. They’ve built Elias up in their minds to be a ghoulish specter, a monster that haunts their lives and drives their fears. Just the thought of confronting him is enough to make Gerry irrational, to send Jon to the edge of panic.

Would taking down Elias ease their minds and free them from the terror of his presence? Certainly. Would confronting Elias in that way be harmful to Jon, who has trouble just  _ thinking  _ about such a thing? Maybe, and that kind of uncertainty is too much of a risk.

But Jon’s face is saying something very different. The fright on his face is slowly being overcome by tired resolve, like he desperately doesn’t want to agree to help them, but he feels a responsibility to do so anyway.

“Jon,” Gerry says quietly, frowning in concern.

“I…” Jon shakes his head, visibly conflicted. “I should…”

“He doesn’t have to, right?” Martin asks Basira, his voice a bit sharper than he meant for it to be.

“Of course not,” she responds immediately. “You’re not obligated to do anything. Just...we would appreciate any information that you think would help.”

Jon shoots Martin an unreadable glance, jaw tense, before looking away. Martin flushes, suddenly realizing that regardless of what answer he would’ve given, Jon should’ve been the one to speak up.  _ Shit.  _ He really overstepped, didn’t he?

Mortified, Martin presses his lips together, flexing his fingers agitatedly against his sides. He should...he’ll have to apologize, but he doesn’t want to in front of Daisy and Basira. He’ll have to wait until after they leave.

“Sure,” Jon says, and it takes a moment for Martin to remember that they’re still in the castle, discussing how two ex-palace guards are going to defeat Elias. “I can’t give you much more than what we’ve already told you, though.”

Basira nods like she’d been expecting that. “I understand.”

They don’t do anything so formal as shake on it, but Basira says the word ‘understand’ with such finality that it’s clear that the conversation is over.

Daisy must be thinking the same thing, because she rises to her feet, stretching her arms above her head as she does. Basira immediately follows, carefully smoothing out the cuffs of her long sleeves. “We’d best get going. The sooner we can take care of Elias, the better.”

“Probably for the best,” Gerry agrees with a curt nod.

“I wish I could say it’s been fun…” Daisy trails off, the end of her smile flipping up.

Jon lets out a strained laugh. “Yeah. No offense, but let’s  _ not  _ do this again.”

* * *

“I’ve never been to the coast,” Georgie comments as they walk through the marketplace. Her hand is a comforting weight on Martin’s arm as they meander along, taking in the sights. “It’s cooler than I expected.”

Martin pauses in examining the latest crop of oranges to shake his head and laugh. “Actually, it’s unusual for it to be this nice. Sometimes the humidity gets so bad it’s all you can do not to melt into the ground.”

Martin had been thrilled when Georgie had agreed to his invitation to come visit Rollins, for more reasons than one. Her presence means that he won’t get ignored by unwitting shopkeepers, which is a blessing in and of itself. She’s also a great conversationalist and a warm, wonderful person; he just wishes it hadn’t taken getting cursed for them to finally get to know each other properly.

Georgie wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Ugh, that sounds awful.”

“The rain is really, really nice though,” he can’t help but add, handing Georgie some onions to put in her wicker basket. “When it falls, it’s...heavy? Like a constant pressure. I know it bothers some people, but I find it comforting.”

She nods sagely. “I know what you mean. Ilar is all…”

“Bursts of rain,” he finishes, waving his hand. “Big lightning storms that come and go.”

“Right.”

They stop talking long enough for Martin to hand Georgie Jon’s seal and pay for the produce, before continuing to wander along, pausing to examine the more unusual merchant’s stalls, the ones who bring wares from overseas.

“How’s the patisserie doing?” Martin asks.

Georgie stops eyeing a pair of turquoise and gold earrings long enough to give Martin an unhappy wince.

Martin grimaces in response. “That bad, huh?”

Georgie lets out a low, exhausted sigh, and sets the earrings back on the table. “It’s...I mean, it’s not like we’re getting fewer customers, or anything. The demand is still  _ there.  _ It’s just...they’re being very strict about rations in Ilar. We’ve had to let some people go.”

_ That  _ sends a thrill of alarm running down Martin’s spine. “Oh  _ no.” _

“It’s not like I’m in any danger of losing my job, or anything,” she clarifies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s just...getting hard. Harder.”

He can’t believe that he didn’t notice how hard the war has been hitting Ilar. He knows that there’s an army base not far away, as it’s almost on the border between Strangia and Ingary, but…

No, wait. Now that he thinks about it, when would he have been able to notice? The last time he went to Ilar to do more than invite Georgie to the castle was when he went to see his mum, and he wasn’t exactly in a state to take in much of anything then. While he’s had his reasons for it, he’s been largely disconnected from everything that’s been going on in his hometown.

For a moment, he wonders if he should feel guilty about that. He’s lived in Ilar his entire life; went to school there, gotten his first job there, had his heart broken there. For almost thirty years, that little town on the southern border of Ingary was his whole world.

But...no. No, he’s not guilty, and he’s not upset, because if he was, then he’d have to say that he regretted all the time he spent at the castle. He has the castle, and he has Jon, and Gerry, and the Wastes that unfurl each morning like the world laying a glorious, beautiful tapestry at his feet. He cannot regret that.

“Well,” Martin says, rousing himself from his thoughts. “I know somewhere that’ll cheer you up.”

Georgie smiles, a note of curiosity in her eyes. “Oh? Do tell.”

_ King’s Magic Goods  _ is exactly where Martin remembered it to be, almost hiding behind a couple of stalls at the end of the street. He pauses in front of the door to let Georgie take a good, long look at the display behind the window, the peeling and faded sign.

“‘King’s magic goods?’” Georgie nudges Martin’s side, her eyes wide and bright with excitement. “Sounds pretentious.”

Martin smiles and opens the door, ushering her inside. “‘King’ is actually the last name of the woman who runs the shop. Her and Jon don’t really get along.”

Georgie groans theatrically. “What did he do?”

“I haven’t heard the whole story, but  _ apparently  _ he insulted her shop.” Never mind that he kind of thinks he knows why—the shop obviously also caters those who tend to treat magic like a novelty. Still, it’s not the sort of thing you say about a person’s livelihood to their face _. _

Georgie lets out an incredulous laugh. “Good old Jon.”

They spend almost half an hour wandering up and down the aisles, pointing out particularly interesting objects to each other, speculating about what their purpose could be. Regardless of whether or not the shop is tacky, it’s fun to come up with hilariously ludicrous scenarios for the especially odd looking items.

(Georgie has Martin in stitches over a suspiciously phallic-shaped ‘magic enhancer’.)

“What about these?” Georgie asks, holding out a handful of familiar, glass-encased flowers, her face mischievous.

“Oh!” Martin is so excited by the fact that he  _ actually knows  _ what these are that he forgets to say something funny. “Oh, these are—actually, these are really cool. They’re called charms, and each flower means...or, well, it has a different attribute. And you can use them to make these.”

Martin reaches up and unclasps his necklace, handing Georgie the two talismans. She holds them up to the light, her eyes going wide at the sight of the delicate, vibrant flowers encased in a layer of pure, protective magic.

Her voice is gratifyingly awed. “What are they?”

“Talismans.” He carefully takes the necklace from her and lays the pendants out on his palm. “The flowers protect you from different things. I don’t remember the exact meaning of each one right now, but if the flower senses danger of a certain type, it’ll use some of the magic it’s encased in to protect you. I...I think. That’s a pretty simplified explanation.”

“Indigo is for protection, white is for clarity, and purple is for good luck.”

Martin and Georgie turn around to find Melanie King standing behind them, a red and white cane resting casually by her side, a smile on her deep red lips. Her hair is dark at the roots, but it bleeds into sunny yellows and light, pastel pinks at the tips, almost like a sunset. The effect is stunning.

“Hi Melanie,” Martin greets, startled by her sudden appearance.

“Hey Martin,” she responds amiably, before holding out her hand. “Mind if I take a look at those?”

“Sure.” He hastens to drop the pendants into her palm.

She spends a few moments humming thoughtfully, turning them over, even sniffing them at one point. Martin glances at Georgie, only to find her glued to Melanie’s movements, seemingly entranced by her deft surety.

Finally, Melanie hands the necklace back. “I’d forgotten how potent Jon’s magic is, especially when it’s combined with Gerry’s. I might have to take out a commission soon.”

Martin pauses in the middle of putting his necklace back on and frowns. “I thought you…?”

“Oh, he’s a prick,” she responds, almost gleefully. “But he’s got damn powerful magic.”

Something slots into place in Martin’s mind, a beam piercing through the murky confusion of their relationship, throwing it into a new light. Was the sniping, the acerbic jabs, the insults—were those overtures of  _ friendship _ ?

“Anyway,” Melanie turns to face Georgie. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, sorry.” embarrassed, Martin quickly turns to Georgie. “Melanie, this is Georgie Barker. She’s visiting from my hometown. Georgie, this is Melanie.”

“Nice to meet you,” Georgie says, waiting for Melanie to switch the cane from her right to left hand before shaking. “Love your shop.”

Melanie gives her a crooked smile. “No need to pretend for my sake. I heard you two laughing over that, er, what was it? The magic enhancer.” Upon saying the words ‘magic enhancer’, she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

Martin buries his face in his hands, and Georgie blushes so hard that he can almost feel the heat radiating from her skin.

“Oh my  _ god,”  _ she mutters, low and fervent.

Melanie laughs, a bright, happy sound. “I mean, it  _ is  _ funny.”

Georgie reaches up and twirls a curl around her finger, her eyes crinkling endearingly at the corners. “I’m glad that you thought so.”

And Martin...feels a bit like he’s just disappeared into the woodwork. Watching the two women interact with each other though, witty and charming and inexplicably natural, he can’t say that he minds.

* * *

Martin pauses in the middle of spooning Jon a bowl of curry, and looks around.

Gerry is drowsing on the edge of the hearth, his head resting on his folded arms, his burnt orange eyes half-lidded. Sparks drift lazily in the air around him, shimmering like fireflies before dwindling to nothing. It’s comfortably warm, like they’ve been dunked into a hot bath, and Martin has a feeling that if he Looked, he’d see Gerry’s magic spread suffusing the whole room like a fiery cloud.

Jon is curled up in one of the chairs they’d moved from Martin’s home to the castle, a book laid open on his lap. His glasses are resting on top of his hair, and as Martin watches, he pinches a page between his long, clever fingers and turns it, smoothing the paper down as he does. He’s curled up in a position that must be hell on his back, but he stubbornly refuses to move.

The contented happiness once more nestles beside his heart.

A beat. Then Jon looks up, meeting Martin’s gaze. “...Martin?”

Martin feels an involuntary, soppy smile cross his face, and he forces himself to look down, to finish spooning the curry into the bowl. “Nothing.”

He gets up and crosses the room, before settling the meal on the small table next to the chair where Jon can easily access it. Before he can retreat, though, a hand reaches out and catches his wrist, stilling him. When he glances down, Jon’s gaze is mostly steady, except for a touch of uncertainty that is hiding where very few know to look.

“Jon?”

“Martin,” Jon responds, low and a little hoarse, but then hesitates.

Martin’s heart leaps into his throat. “Jon—”

Whatever he would’ve said—and he’s still unsure of where his mind was going to take him—is swallowed up by a loud distant  _ boom. _

Jon’s head swivels in the direction of the noise, his eyebrows furrowing in frustrated confusion. “What the hell?”

And  _ that’s  _ when Gerry spills from the fire and onto the floor, his eyes yellow and wild with alarm. “Jon, Jon, go outside, look outside, it’s  _ Ilar—” _

Martin is running down the stairs before he can even think it through, and his fingers fumble uselessly at the door handle before he manages to push it open. He stumbles out onto the grass and looks beyond the Wastes, down the mountain, to the tiny town of Ilar.

He sinks to his knees, burying his fingers in the grass, white noise filling his ears until it’s all he can hear. No, no,  _ no— _

Ilar is burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ENDGAME TIME, FOLKS
> 
> chapters 15-17 will be dedicated to the finale, which i am VERY EXCITED FOR!! it's all going to come together!!!!!!! i hope you'll enjoy it as much as i enjoyed planning it!!!
> 
> also, here's some more fanart by the very talented ringingsilent!! it's the scene from ch10 where gerry attempts to leave the castle to look for jon!! it's super intense and gorgeous to look at. there are also some very cute doodles and a hug, which i always love <3  
> https://ringingsilent.tumblr.com/post/629106685561176064/iceeckos12-i-always-picture-martin-stopping-gerry


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone please check end notes for warnings, this chapter deals with some heavy themes.

There is a moment of pure, stunned silence as they look down the mountain, as the Strangia war planes buzz over the town of Ilar, dropping their deadly payloads. The Ingarian air force has mobilized in response, soaring in from the north like silver comets streaking through the night sky. The popping of gunfire is barely audible, the sound almost innocent, almost innocuous from this distance.

Wind blows by, carrying the acrid scent of smoke, and Martin doesn’t register the low drone overhead until Jon is hauling him upright by the arm, muttering, “Martin, we need to get inside, come on—”

Martin looks up, and the sight of the silver and maroon supply ship so close to the top of the castle makes his mouth go dry. He clings to Jon’s arm to help lever himself upright, legs unsteady as they hobble back toward the stairs. Gerry is half leaning out of the door, gesturing for them to hurry, his gaze darting nervously between them and the ships overhead.

The second Martin gets all the way through, Gerry slams the door shut and throws the lock with a ferocity that would be frightening under any other circumstance.

“It’s the Strangia military,” he gasps.

“I know,” Jon says, grasping Martin’s elbow and tugging him pointedly up. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

Martin follows, strangely numb, like someone has scooped out all of his insides and replaced them with ice. “I—I never thought that the war would….but it makes sense, we’re so close to the Strangia border, I just never  _ thought—” _

“Breathe, Martin.” Gerry says the words, but they’re offhand, lacking any modicum of comfort. He’s standing in front of the window, parting the curtains just enough to see what’s going on outside. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“It’s not going to be okay!” he doesn’t mean to shout, he really doesn’t, but  _ Georgie  _ is down there, and—

He’s not sure why his mind goes to his mother. She...he’s always been a disappointment to her, she  _ betrayed  _ him and the two people he cares most deeply for, but all he can see is her huddled in her care home as the bombs rain around her, terrified out of her wits. His sudden surge of worry for her doesn’t make sense, and he wants to choke the notion out of himself, but he doesn’t know how.

He shakes his head. “How is any of this going to be okay?”

Gerry had tensed and turned around when Martin had raised his voice; now he sends a sidelong glance Jon’s way, tight and worried. Jon leans against the hearth, his arms folded over his chest, chewing absently at the inside of his cheek. They all wince at the sound of a muted explosion, the quiet roar of one of the fighter jets intensifying before dying off.

Unexpectedly, Jon pushes away from the hearth, his hands falling to his sides. There’s a moment of perfect stillness, then a patchwork of green eyes blossom across Jon’s face, down his neck, across his arms, so bright that the glow shines through his clothes. Wind buffets around the room, forcing Martin to cover his face—and when he opens his eyes again, there are two dusty grey moth’s wings flapping sluggishly on Jon’s back. The wingbeats slowly quicken, the air gusting like they’re in the middle of a windstorm, sending showers of sparks up from the hearth.

“It’s going to be okay,” Jon asserts, his voice resonating with power, with defiance, with calm surety. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Jon,” Martin whispers, wide-eyed with horror.

Gerry shakes his head. “Jon, it’s too dangerous. It’s not just the Strangia forces that are after you, it’s the Ingarian forces as well. I wouldn’t be surprised Elias is trying to lure you out somehow.”

“I know.”

The fire changes color as it heats, from orange to bright yellow to blue, Gerry’s eyes shifting in tandem. “I can’t bail you out this time, Jon. I can’t help you.”

Jon closes his eyes, taking a few slow, deep breaths. When he opens them again, they’re the same neon green as the eyes spiralling across his skin, glowing as intensely as Gerry’s. “Aren’t you  _ tired,  _ Gerry?”

Gerry recoils, the fire briefly sputtering a bright, dazzling white. “What?”

“I’m so  _ fucking  _ tired of being scared of Jonah!” There’s a sort of reckless emotion in Jon’s eyes, usual caution thrown to the wind. “I’m tired of—of hiding, of being forced to make sacrifices at his whims! I’m done playing his game. If I lose something again, I want it to be on my own terms.”

They’re quiet for a moment, staring, taking each other’s measure. Jon’s face is resolute, his whole frame unmoving, while Gerry is perfectly still, perfectly empty. Martin scarcely dares to breath.

“It’s never enough for you, is it?” There’s so much resigned despair in Gerry’s voice that Martin’s heart aches in sympathy. “You’ll never be satisfied with just surviving.”

Jon’s face twists in regret, and he lays a hand on Gerry’s shoulder, as though a comforting touch will somehow make it better. Every blink is an interruption of the glowing green that throws the planes of his face into stark relief. “I don’t just want to survive. I want to  _ live _ . Don’t you want that, too?”

The sudden, striking image of Gerry leaning over the edge of the balcony, trying to capture the same feeling he used to get from flying, appears in his mind.

Gerry looks away, sucking in a short, sharp breath through his nose, letting it go silently, slowly. Martin is struck by how  _ small  _ Gerry looks, his spine curled forward, shoulders bowed as though straining under some great weight. It’s all the more obvious how much his situation eats at him in moments like these, with Jon about to run headlong into danger alone once again.

Then he takes a deep breath. Stands perfectly straight, forces his shoulders back, schools his face into something calm and reliable. Carries on the only way he knows how.

“You have your talisman?” Gerry asks, stepping forward and fussing with the collar of Jon’s shirt, patting his hair flat.

Jon pushes Gerry’s hands away with a long-suffering scowl and nods, though there’s no heat behind the curt actions. He holds onto Gerry’s hand for a second longer than strictly necessary, giving it a tight squeeze.

Then he turns to Martin, and—oh  _ no.  _ Martin bites down hard on his lip, doing his best to fight back the burn in his eyes, to push down the lump in his throat. His voice is hoarse, catching over the futility of his words as he says, “You don’t have to do this.”

_ Ilar is not as important to me as your safety. It was my hometown, yes, but it has never been as much of a home as you are to me now. _

Hands fold around his, small and warm and dry—but there’s something else though, something that resonates under Martin’s fingertips. It feels like ferocity, like a maelstrom, like the volcano that slumbered on the crest of Tellorin’s horizon—

It feels like  _ magic. _

“I want to stop Elias from hurting anyone else if I can,” Jon rubs his thumb over Martin’s knuckles in such a thoroughly distracting way that it leaves him speechless. “I’m going to come back. We still need to...to talk. About some things.”

“Oh,  _ god. _ ” Martin lets out a surprised, wet laugh.

The corner of Jon’s mouth quirks up for just a moment, before settling back into a determined line. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Jonathan Sims,” Martin whispers, trying not to feel as though this goodbye is more final than any others that they’ve had before.

Jon smiles, letting go with one hand to skim his fingertips across Martin’s cheek, a few degrees short of a caress.

And then he’s gone.

* * *

Jon steps through the broom closet, slams the door behind him, and almost immediately has to throw himself against the wood as the world rocks violently with a nearby explosion. He grits his teeth until the tremors subside, clinging to the brass handle for balance. Wherever the bomb landed, it must have been close.

_ Small mercies that it didn’t land here.  _ Just the thought of Martin’s and Gerry’s reactions are enough to make him wince grimly.

Contrary to what they probably think, he’s not going to throw himself at the bombs without a plan. Jon just needs to make sure that his idea isn’t going to exhaust him so much that the Eye will be able to find a foothold. He needs to be smart about this if he wants to return to the castle intact.

_ Martin, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it, gold-brown eyes glittering with fear—but not fear of him, fear  _ for  _ him. _

He has to come back. He made a promise, after all.

He can’t quite stop the frown that crosses his face when he steps out onto the cobblestone streets of Ilar, though. Ilar’s profile is backlit by the glow of distant flames, the persistent drone of aircraft all around him, and an ashy grittiness that coats the inside of his mouth. Even as he watches, a pair of planes spiral around each other, their guns flashing a sharp, bright staccato, before peeling away into cloud cover.

Jon closes his eyes, brings what he wants to do into his mind’s eye. This is going to be tricky, especially considering the scale he wants to cover, but—

He lifts his hands, palms down, and concentrates.

First, the Eye, ever present, ever watching. He casts the net of his magical awareness across the whole of the city, trying to pinpoint where the attacks are being concentrated. The Beholding is always the most difficult to control—something to do with his curse, he thinks—but he pushes past it with a vicious shake of his head, forces it to do what  _ he  _ wants, to show him every nook and cranny of Ilar.

_ Oh,  _ he thinks, scowling, examining the eye creatures that prowl steadily closer to the house.  _ So they  _ were  _ waiting for me. _

Well. Hopefully this won’t take too long.

He turns to the southwest where the fighting is most intense, ignoring the rumble of collapsing building from down the street. This time he reaches for the Vast, that nebulous boundary between ground and sky, and rocks with the sudden vertigo that threatens to topple him over. He rides it out, directing the Vast’s magic rather than attempting to grasp it, to control it.

He spreads his hands, and the bombs halt in their paths, suspended in midair. They are currently of the sky, and the Vast is a jealous creature—it clings to what it perceives as its.

And finally, the Desolation. Jon takes a deep breath, then another, and launches himself into the sky, eyes closed, using the Eye’s awareness to navigate. Fire curls around his arms, down to his fingertips, barely contained by his stern control. Once he’s high enough, he sweeps his arm out, sending a swathe of fire in an arc before him, self-contained detonations rocking the air.

He sighs, rolling his shoulders.

_ Again. As many times as it takes. _

* * *

Gerry is sitting on the edge of the hearth, his head resting on his folded arms, eyes shut in a mimicry of a peaceful doze. Those who know how to look would be able to see the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders are drawn taut beneath his jacket, and would realize that he is anything but relaxed.

Martin’s no better. He hasn’t been able to settle since Jon left, has been shaking nervous jitters out of his hands as he alternates between hovering by the window, the hearth. Sometimes he tries to sit, tries to calm himself down, but he finds the inaction unbearable and gets up again.

“You’ll wear a path in the floor,” Gerry rumbles after almost ten minutes of this.

“You’d be doing the same if you were me,” Martin snaps, then immediately winces. “I’m...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...you just, you have a direct conduit to him. I can’t see him, I don’t know if he’s  _ alright...” _

His fault-lined voice cracks in two, and he stops, scrubbing furiously at his eyes. Oh, this is just  _ hateful.  _ Suddenly he has far, far more sympathy for when he and Jon went to the palace without Gerry. The suspense of Jon’s absence is almost worse than the fear of being in the middle of it all.

There’s a brief pause, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Then Gerry lets out a low, quiet sigh, and says, “Get over here.”

Martin jumps, mortification flushing through him, all the way down to his toes. “No—Gerry, I’m sorry, you don’t have to—”

“Our bond, it goes two ways, right?” Gerry shakes his head. “Come here. We can watch it together.”

Martin seriously doubts his ability to sit still for more than a couple of seconds, but he sighs and trudges over, flopping in the chair by the side of the hearth. Feeling almost petulant, he floods the conduit to his eyes with magic, overlaying the room with the colors of the affinities, revealing the bonds that criss cross the air around him. 

Jon and Gerry’s bond is the same unyielding, brilliant gold as he remembers, except that it’s pulsing gently. He watches it for a moment, his worry momentarily overcome by curiosity. Jon and Gerry had told him  _ about  _ bonds, certainly, but their lesson had been interrupted by Martin’s impromptu confrontation with the Beholding. They’d never actually explained how bonds work.

“Are you…” Martin frowns, trying to interpret what he’s seeing. “Are you communicating to Jon? Through the bond?”

Gerry shakes his head, his expression distant. “Sort of? It’s—it’s complicated. I can...I can sort of tell what his general state is. If he’s in distress or pain, that sort of thing. We can’t actually talk through it, though.”

“Hm.” Martin leans against the hearth, tilting his head back as he recalls the spindly, gossamer thread that Elias had wrapped around his throat to control him all those weeks ago. It had been such a fragile, tenuous connection, and comparing it to this one, which had threatened to devour Martin with its strength at even a mere moment of contact… “This isn’t a normal connection, is it.”

Gerry looks up, visibly startled. “What?”

“I mean,” Martin waves a self-conscious hand. “Even Jon’s curse, which he’s had for  _ years  _ looked so...weak? No, it…” he sighs, frustrated by his inability to put abstract ideas into concrete concepts. “It was obviously one-sided, so it lacked an….it was like a question that lacked an answer.  _ Incomplete,  _ somehow. Your bond is like a conversation.”

He glances at Gerry, but the hearthkeeper is quiet, watching him with luminous, unreadable eyes. He swallows before continuing, trying to ignore the growing feeling that he sounds like an idiot.

“And I mean,  _ I  _ don’t have a bond with you or Jon, and I’d like to think that we’re friends of a sort?”

“Of course we are,” Gerry interjects calmly.

Martin’s face warms. “R-Right, but—this sort of thing doesn’t seem like it just  _ happens.  _ There must have been some sort of—of catalyst for it, right?” The lack of reaction makes him feel nervous though, like he’s inadvertently just put his foot in his mouth. “Or am I reading it wrong?”

Gerry taps a senseless pattern on the cobblestones of the hearth, inscrutable. “Martin,” he begins slowly, “are you saying that you can sense the quality of our bond?”

Martin opens his mouth, closes it, mentally readjusts the topic of conversation. “...yes?” and then, because he can’t help it, “You can’t?”

Gerry blinks very rapidly, fiddling with the folds of his jacket. “Most humans can’t.”

His mind goes blank for a moment, his jaw working uselessly as he tries to figure out what he’s supposed to say, to  _ think  _ about that. It’s something that he’s been able to do since he was first taught how to See, and he’s having trouble wrapping his head around the thought that it’s not  _ normal,  _ that it somehow sets him apart from other magic-users.

He opens his mouth to ask what this is supposed to  _ mean— _

Gerry’s expression shifts from curious to confused, and his head jerks toward the stairs a split second before there’s a knock at the door.

Martin wordlessly rises to his feet, resting a steadying hand on the cobblestones. Gerry is still, poised like a bird of prey gauging a potential threat.

“Expecting someone?” Martin asks at length, though the humor falls flat in the face of this sudden, palpable tension.

“It’s Daisy,” Gerry murmurs, maneuvering into a sitting position on the edge of the hearth, visibly unsettled. “What’s she doing in the Wastes? She’s supposed to be at the capital.”

Martin bites his lip. “Do we...open the door?”

Gerry considers this, drumming his fingers at his sides. “Why would we?”

“She could have information for us,” he points out, drawing his hands to his chest, wringing them nervously. “About Elias. Or—what if it’s urgent?”

Gerry shakes his head, unconvinced. “But what’s she doing in the Wastes at a time like this? I don’t like it.”

It’s a good point—now that he thinks about it, the timing is far too coincidental for comfort. Martin shifts from one foot to the other, looking to the stairs, to Gerry, back to the stairs again, curiosity warring with an impending sense of doom.

He doesn’t get a chance to debate the point any further.

Later, he will only be able to remember snippets of it; fear tasting like copper on the tongue, sheer, blind panic that made his heart pound like thunder, disjointed flashes of the world around him, the stench of brimstone and sweat. The burn of Gerry’s body before him, shielding him, much as Jon had all those weeks ago.

Now he is in the thick of it; there is no solace to be taken from the passage of time, from distance and from the kindness of good company. He is wholly, painfully aware when Gerry lets out a noise like he’s been stabbed, when he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. Every breath rasps in Martin’s throat as Daisy, her eyes glazed green with the siren song of the Eye’s compulsion, comes charging up the stairs, fingernails magically sharpened into points, canines bared.

He throws himself backward, but the hearth is behind him, halting his escape, and his shaking legs crumple beneath him. Jon is not here, and Gerry is pulling himself upright slowly, too slowly, and Martin has never felt so painfully exposed, so painfully vulnerable.

She doesn’t attack right away, though; her gait slows, her eyes alight with something he can’t quite place, something that looks like resistance, regret—

“D-Daisy,” Martin whispers, pushing himself back, away. “You need to—you…”

His words die as a neon green eye blooms over her cheek, exactly like the ones that blossom to life on Jon’s skin whenever he uses magic. She lets out a sharp, short noise, shakes her head, and steps closer, graceful and lithe as a hunter. Her eyes are focused on Martin, her advance immutable and unerring.

An enraged shout comes from somewhere to the left, and fire explodes over his head, charring the air, turning the world almost too hot to bear. The plush chairs, the carpet, the bannister, everything catches fire as Gerry throws himself forward, tackling Daisy to the ground in a blazing charge. She recovers quickly though, undeterred by the flames, and  _ fuck she’s wearing a talisman, is that why Gerry’s flames can’t touch her? _

He needs to do something. He needs to—but all he can see is the bright whorl of Gerry’s magic spread like wings around him, and the bonds stretching off into the distance, and his legs are shaking too much for him to move, and he is sweaty and slow and useless,  _ useless— _

Daisy manages to wrestle out from under Gerry, and her body coils like a wound spring, primed to pounce, claws extended in the direction of his heart. He gets a flash of the sharp intent in her gaze and throws his hands in front of him (a futile gesture) and squeezes his eyes shut (he wonders what his death will bring to this castle, and he hopes it will mean something).

But...the pain doesn’t come.

He waits a beat, then another, expecting for the agony to come at any moment, for claws to shred the tender skin of his forearms. Painstakingly he opens his eyes, peering through his fingertips, like the mere act of seeing the room will restart time, will initiate his demise once more.

A black trenchcoat, black hair melting into flames that roll thickly down the back of it. The heat is so intense that it makes his mouth feel like the inside of a furnace, like he’s about to roast from the inside out.

“Gerry,” Martin whispers.

There’s a quiet thud, and from under Gerry’s arm he sees Daisy collapse into a heap, face twisted in pain. He can’t see any more neon eyes, though, and when her eyes slit open, they’re free of compulsion. There’s a strange, silvery liquid coating the tips of the now-human fingers curled in front of her, like a child’s.

A beat. And then Gerry’s arms fall, and he lists to one side, seemingly unable to catch himself as he sinks all the way to the floor.

* * *

_ Jon is just curling up and around the eave of a house, dodging fire from one of the dogfighters, when an earthquake ruptures him from the inside out. _

_ He gasps, clutching frantically at his chest, at the way his heart suddenly jackrabbits to an almost unbearable speed. It’s all he can do to do a clumsy, barely-controlled fall to the dusty street, landing hard on his knees. He doesn’t care about the pain right now though, not when he can feel the most important bond he’s ever made fraying at the edges. _

_ He lifts his hands to his face, staring in horror as multitudes of neon eyes appear on the surface of his skin, staring blankly into the darkness, the chaos, around him. The barrier in his mind, the one that held back the worst of the tide of the Eye, is shattered to pieces. _

Gerry,  _ he thinks through the thunderdrum of his heart, and falls. _

* * *

_ “Gerry!”  _ Martin scrambles forward, hands hovering in the negative space above Gerry’s crumpled form. He aches to touch, to check for wounds, but the phantom sensation of burning skin stops him. “Gerry, are you— _ Gerry—” _

Gerry groans, and slowly rolls onto his back. His eyes are hazy with pain, and the front of his shirt is drenched with the same strange, silvery liquid on Daisy’s hands, and oh  _ fuck,  _ is that his blood?

“I’m okay,” Gerry says, trying to push himself upright with one arm. He doesn’t even get halfway there before he lets out a low, agonized groan and lowers himself back down. “Maybe not.”

“Are you bleeding?” Martin demands, voice and hands beginning to tremble in tandem. “Gerry, is that, are you, is that your  _ blood?” _

“Yeah.” Gerry’s voice is raspy and pained, and he lifts his hand from his stomach to get a look at the damage. His face twists into a grimace and he lets his head thunk back to the floor. “Fuck.  _ Shit.” _

“O-Okay, just—” Martin uses the hearth to lever himself upright and looks around frantically for one of the discarded blankets so he can put some pressure on the wound. Everything’s still on  _ fire  _ though, including the stairs that lead to the second floor, and he twirls aimlessly, looking for  _ anything  _ that could fix this _.  _ “Um—uh—”

“Martin,” there’s a weak tug at his pant leg, and he drops back to Gerry’s side, unable to resist the pull of that minute, desperate gesture. “Martin, you need to find Jon.”

“Forget  _ Jon!”  _ It’s killing him not to be able to reach out and comfort when Gerry is obviously in so much pain. “You’re bleeding out, I’m not just going to  _ leave  _ you!”

“You don’t get it,” Gerry shakes his head and lets out a tiny laugh that turns into a wet, wracking cough. “You—you were right about our bond being different, but I never told you how.”

_ How the fuck does that matter right now?  _ He thinks, but forces himself to be silent.

“The curse Elias cast on Jon, it was meant to bind him permanently to the Eye, to turn him into a...a magical battery. But it was _also_ supposed to turn him into a puppet, to steal his free will to keep him from resisting. Elias didn’t account for me though, and I was able to, to, to shift the curse with my magic, just enough to give Jon the ability to fight back. Just enough of a foot in the door to keep it from closing entirely.”

Martin stares at Gerry, his heart sinking in his chest, because—

“My magic, though it’s—I can’t fight the Eye like this. It’s going to break through and it’s going to  _ take  _ him, and you need to  _ find  _ him, I don’t want him to, to be alone—”

“But what can I do?” It’s a whispered, shaking plea. “How can I save him?”

Gerry’s face twists despairingly, and he looks away, lips pressed into a tight, bitter line.

No. There’s a hollow ringing in his ears that drowns out the crackle of the burning castle, the sound of the drones and explosions. His mouth tastes sour, and he shakes his head, disbelieving, horrified, because no,  _ no.  _ If Gerry keeps bleeding out, if Jon finally loses his battle with the Eye—

He could lose them both in one terrible, fell swoop, and it would be  _ his fault. _

He looks down at Gerry, his expression pained but determined, pleading for Jon’s sake, his hands wrapped over his silvered stomach to try and stem his own bleeding. He imagines Jon, hands warm and dry in his, rubbing comforting circles over his knuckles, promising to return home. The castle burns in the background, their happy life reduced to no more than ashes and soot.

No.

This will not be his legacy. This will  _ not  _ be how he changes things.

Martin takes a deep breath, folds his sleeves over his fingers, and gently takes one of Gerry’s hands in his own. With his free hand he strokes Gerry’s sweaty hair, smoothing it away from his face.

“Tell me what I need to do.”

“Martin,” Gerry whispers, stunned, red eyes wide. “Martin, you’ll—”

Martin tightens his grip, baring his teeth against the pain. “Tell me what I need to do.”

Gerry looks at him for a moment, lips parted, more stunned than Martin has ever seen him. He is wholly unprepared for the tear that sizzles down Gerry’s skin, dissolving to salt and steam before it can even cross his cheekbone. 

“Go through the black door,” Gerry whispers, lifting his arm to cover his face, body shaking with every choked-off breath. “If it’s you, maybe—maybe you can do something. Maybe you’ll be better than all of us.”

“Okay,” Martin whispers, squeezing Gerry’s hand again, before leaning and brushing a burning kiss to his temple. Gerry lets out a deep, soul-wrenching sob that makes his heart ache. “I’ll be back.”

* * *

_ The Eye is a constant, driving pressure all around him, consuming him, tearing at his frayed edges. It is all that he can do to hold onto his mind, to drag the pieces of himself that he can salvage back into a coherent shape. It is important that he does so, even if he doesn’t altogether remember why. _

_ The dusty street is cold and hard beneath his back, compacted by years and years of traffic, of horses shod with metal shoes, of straight-backed soldiers and their crisp march, of pedestrians leisurely meandering. His breath rattles as he draws it in, and he tastes the heady scent of copper and ash on his tongue. The sky burns around him. _

_ He is so very tired. He wants to fall back into the welcoming darkness, to allow the presence, singing siren songs of power and pleasure, to consume him. His limbs ache with pain and fatigue and his eyes are tired and itchy, but he knows that he cannot fall asleep. _

_ It is a losing battle, though. His eyelids sink like lead weights are attached to the other end, and every gasp into awareness comes fewer and farther between. _

_ There are clouds of smoke swirling around him—or maybe it is his vision which is undulating so strangely?—and his eyes track them with distant fascination. Somewhere in the distance there is a crackling sound, then a scream, and then a cacophonous collapse. There is a soft snuffling in the distance which draws ever closer. Perhaps when it finds him, it will think to be merciful. _

_ He is so very tired. He tries to draw the face into his mind—dark ginger curls, a smattering of riotous freckles, soft, round cheeks—and cannot. It slips away from him, ephemeral and longing. He wants to weep for it to return, but he does not have the strength to do so. _

_ The Eye digs its greedy fingers deeper. _

* * *

Martin steps through the door and into blackness. The sudden absence of the crackling fire, the choking scent of smoke and ash, is so startling that he has to stand there for a moment, trying to regain his bearings. Even those few precious seconds feel like too long. Gerry is back there, and  _ Jon  _ is back there, and they are both dying—

_ No. Don’t think about it. Just put one foot in front of the other, force yourself through the blackness, arms stretched blindly in front of you. Don’t think about the cost if you fuck up. _

He takes a deep breath and walks as fast as he can through the negative space, bracing himself for an obstacle that never comes. He just keeps going, and though it doesn’t feel like he’s making any progress, when he looks back he can’t see the door to the castle anymore, just an endless void.

He whispers a few words of poetry just to make sure he can still hear, that he can still remember who he is. Whatever this place is though, it’s not like the Lonely, consuming and hostile. It feels...uncaring. Like he is a mere insect here, too unimportant to even acknowledge, and that somehow scares him even more.

He walks for what feels like an age, and the longer he walks the more the panic rises in him. He’s not sure what he’s looking for. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to help Jon, or Gerry, and he’s not sure what’s waiting for him at the end of his journey but Gerry said it wasn’t safe a million years ago, and he’s so scared,  _ god  _ he’s so scared. There’s so fucking much to be scared of, and his body trembles at the magnitude of it all.

He could lose Jon. He could lose Gerry. He could lose Jon  _ and  _ Gerry. He tries to imagine going back to Ilar, back to his old job, his old life wrapped around him like a shroud, but the thought is so repulsive he immediately shies away from it. He tries to imagine going to Tellorin instead, going to the field of sulfur pools and geysers, and staring up into the clear night sky alone.

He tries to imagine being alone.

Martin stumbles out of the dark, gasping for air, trembling all the way down to his marrow. It’s bright in here, far brighter than the dark nothing, and he blinks away tears as his eyes readjust.

He freezes.

There’s a faded, grimy pedestal sitting in the center of the otherwise empty room. The only door is just behind him, flung wide open, revealing the inky blackness he’d just emerged from. On top of the pedestal is an eye—but not just any eye.  _ The  _ Eye. He knows it by the way it blinks at him, languid and slow, unconcerned by any threat it might pose. He knows it from the memory of something enormous and incomprehensible looking into him, searing him from the inside out with the intensity of its gaze.

There is nothing else it could be.

“Y-You.” Martin tries not to blink, tries not to show his fear, knows that it’s a useless effort. “You.”

As if in the response, the Eye blinks back.

And just like that, Martin is  _ enraged.  _ He doesn’t care if this is some all-powerful monster, or that it could destroy him without a thought. This thing hurt Jon, tried to gobble him up, to steal everything that made him beloved and human, and that is simply unforgivable. He buries his fear deep and gathers his courage, because enough.  _ Enough. _

“Let him go,” Martin growls, low and incandescent.

The Eye does not respond.

“You  _ have  _ to let him go! He’s not yours to keep!”

Still there’s nothing, just more of that stupid, omniscient fucking silence, and Martin puffs out his chest—

**_Don’t want to hurt him. Don’t want to hurt you. Let me. Let me. Let me_ ** _. _

Martin staggers backward, clutching at his head, gritting his teeth against the strange, foreign invasion of his mind. His head feels too full, an intense pressure straining against the inside of his skull, like it’s about to explode into a million pieces.

Unexpectedly the foreign presence fades, and he is left alone with his racing thoughts, reeling at the sudden absence. He stands there, his ragged panting too loud in the strange, weighted quiet. The Eye keeps watching him, apparently content to let him recover.

After a moment, he straightens. Lets his hands drop to his sides. Looks back.

There is no reason not to hate the Eye, not to wish fervently for its demise. Its thirst for knowledge allowed for Elias to remain in a place of prominence and power for the past century. Its greed was the origin of Jon’s curse, his and Gerry’s pain. There is every reason for Martin to try and destroy it.

Except.

Except when that presence had been in his head, he’d felt flashes of an all-too-human  _ something.  _ Not quite emotions the way he experiences them, but...flickers of earnestness, a note of contrition when the Eye realized that it was hurting him. It’s enough to make him pause and reassess.

This time when the Eye reaches for his mind it’s far, far more careful, distracting but not overly intense. It insinuates its message, like a note being slipped coyly across a table.

**_Let me show you._ **

Martin’s furrows his eyebrows in cautious confusion, because that doesn’t make any  _ sense _ . “You...want to help?”

The Eye isn’t a person; it’s an affinity of magic, impersonal, all powerful, greedy and gluttonous for knowledge, uncaring of where it gets that knowledge from. It shouldn’t feel human awkwardness, or take on human mannerisms.

But for a moment it hesitates. It lets the silence go for a moment, as though thinking, deciding its path forward.  _ Look. _

Martin frowns impatiently. “Where?”

A compulsion rolls through him, and he’s turning toward the base of the pedestal before he can even think to resist. He wants to shout, to scream at the thing for controlling him, but he’s almost immediately distracted by the small, pulsing ball of light, so easy to miss under the might of the Eye.

_ Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. _

“Oh,” Martin whispers, reaching to steady himself on the doorframe behind him. “Oh, that’s…”

_ Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. _

**_Let me show you,_ ** the Eye repeats.

Martin’s dry throat clicks as he swallows. “Show me, then.”

* * *

His body shudders, and—

“Jon!”

He thinks that he hears  _ his  _ voice. Just the thought of it, just the thought of any part of  _ him  _ even if it is a hallucination _ ,  _ briefly rouses him, forces him to push onto his elbows, his tattered wings draped down his back.  _ Fight it, Jon,  _ Gerry’s voice whispers.  _ You have to fight it. _

_ For Martin,  _ Jon thinks, remembering himself, his self-appointed duty.  _ Protect Martin. _

“Jon!” the voice calls again.

Jon frowns. That voice sounds...very much not like a hallucination.

“Jon,” and arms are encircling his waist, tugging him into a warm embrace.

Jon struggles for a moment, confused and overwhelmed by the clamor of the Eye in his head and the sensation of touch all around him.

“Jon! Jon, it’s me. It’s me.”

Jon freezes and looks up, breathing hitching in his chest.  _ Martin. _

And just like that, all the fight bleeds out of him. He collapses into Martin’s arms, trembling with exhaustion, almost dizzy with—with—

“You can’t be here,” he wheezes even as his hands grasp helplessly at Martin’s arms, silently begging for him to stay. “It’s—it’s not  _ safe—” _

“Jon, listen to me,” Martin’s voice sounds urgent, and Jon wants to listen to him, he  _ promised  _ that he would listen to him, but this is more important.

Jon shakes his head, finally finding purchase in the folds of Martin’s knitted woolen sweater. “It’s the Eye, Martin, I can’t hold it back forever, you have to—please, I couldn’t bear it if it—if it hurt you—”

_ “Jon!” _

The voice demands silence. Jon shuts up.

Martin takes a deep breath. Now that Jon is looking, there’s dark soot smeared across his cheeks, and his gold-brown eyes are wild and gleaming with residual flame. Despite himself, Jon’s chest aches. “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” Jon says, his hand shaking as he reaches for Martin, for this strange, beautiful person who has somehow changed  _ everything. _

Martin takes a deep breath and briefly closes his eyes, like that one word is enough to take all the air out of his chest. Then he tangles their fingers together and guides Jon’s desperate hand the rest of the way to his face.

“Jon.” Martin says his name like it is more than a three letter signifier, like it is more than just a name that Jon calls himself out of habit rather than any sentiment. He says it like it’s the most important word he knows, and Jon, despite the pressure of the Eye, despite the dying city around him, draws as close to it as possible. “Jon. I need—can you do something for me?”

Jon would, and has already attempted to fight the whole world for this man. “Of course.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting. But it is  _ not  _ for Martin to press his lips together, to look him deep in the eyes, and say, “What do you feel for me?”

And Jon—Jon pauses.

Despite the stirrings in his chest, despite the breathless ache that accompanies him at every glance of Martin’s face, he still lacks a heart. There is nothing  _ to  _ feel.

“I don’t understand,” Jon says, shaking his head.

“Jon, I am asking you to trust me.” Martin grips his hand tighter, folds their bodies together like they’re two puzzle pieces slotting into place. The screams, the fires, the ash and the smoke is replaced by Martin, by tea and wool and ginger curls and gleaming, golden brown eyes. “What do you feel for me?”

He trusts Martin.

There is no other recourse. Jon closes his eyes and reaches, and  _ reaches  _ for something that probably no longer exists. But no matter how much he tries, there is still nothing, still nothing.

He opens his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t…”

Martin firms his jaw, his eyes alive with determination. “That night in Tellorin, you looked at me and—what did you see? What did you see that made you look at me like that?”

Jon bites his lip.

That night in Tellorin, the sky had been clear, the stars and the Milky Way scattered above in perfect relief. There had been the sharp scent of sulfur that was just shy of overwhelming, and Martin’s face had been flushed with pleasure at it all. He had been  _ enchanted,  _ and...Jon had looked at Martin, and in his chest a swallow had tumbled into a dive, soaring and exultant.

And his chest had ached.

“You…”

“I helped you fix your hair,” Martin continues, ignoring Jon. “You smiled at me. I k-kissed you on the forehead, and you looked at me as though you’d never seen me before.”

With the hand not pressed against Martin’s face, he curls his hand in his shirt. Martin is so soft under him, and the Eye is more distant than it has been all night.

He had smiled at Martin because there was something so simply pleasurable about his teasing, about his mere presence. He had smiled because he was helpless  _ not  _ to smile, helpless to understand the sensation that spread through his whole body and made him feel as though he was wrapped in a thick blanket, as though he was somehow, illogically safe.

Martin, up to his elbows in flour, beaming over his shoulder at Jon, and for a second they’d been the only two people in the room, in the whole world. Martin, as serious and attentive as the most devoted student at a university, chewing his lip as he thought over some magical concept Jon was explaining.

Martin, so desperate to care for others, but caring very little for himself in a way that made Jon want to scream. Martin, stubborn and unwavering in the face of those far more powerful and dangerous than him. Martin, his face streaked with tears, self-recriminations falling like snow from his lips.  _ Martin, Martin, Martin. _ The name is tattooed like a drum beat over his skin—

And then, unexpectedly, Martin reaches into the air in front of him, his face a mask of concentration, and yanks.

Jon’s chest  _ thumps. _

He gasps against it, stunned, trying to push himself upright, to push himself  _ away.  _ Martin doesn’t let him though, just goes back to holding Jon’s hand to his cheek. “That’s it,” he murmurs.

It’s like Martin opened up some floodgate in his mind; he can’t stop dragging up the memories, pulling them like polished stones from the bottom of a pool. Not just of Martin, either, but the people whose paths have crossed his over the years, the ones who have—have—

_ Martin, wrapped in a blanket, gaze softened by sleep. Gerry, running his gentle hands through Jon’s hair, like he’s something that warrants careful treatment, something precious. Sasha, reading a book, pen tucked behind her ear, ink smeared over her cheek. Georgie, familiar and a stranger at the same time, falling back into his life with open arms. Gerry’s smile, Sasha’s quick wit, Georgie’s resolve, Martin’s poetry. _

_ Thump. _

Jon twists his hand in his shirt, barely noticing as his wings begin to melt into his back, as the Eye begins to retreat. The ache in his chest is more fierce than it’s ever been, but beneath it,  _ beneath  _ it—

_ Thump. _

There’s a bright light in the distance. It grows brighter second by second, until It fills Jon’s field of vision until he can see nothing else. Even Martin’s face, resplendent and gorgeous, fades in the face of its intensity.

_ Thump. _

The light  _ slams  _ into Jon. His back arcs, and—

_ Th-thump. _

_ Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. _

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Jon’s grip relaxes.

_ Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. _

“Martin,” Jon whispers as the world pours back into his mind, as the Eye melts away with a touch that feels like an apology.

Martin’s smile is slow but fierce. A single tear glitters down his cheek. “There you are.”

Jon’s face is wet. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d started crying.  _ “Martin.” _

There is a dizzying cacophony of sensations and emotions that clench and burn and  _ scream  _ in the back of his mind—

But there is one thing that is immediate, that is overwhelming, that is far more important than anything else.

He grabs Martin’s stupid woolen sweater and drags him down, pressing their lips together, trying to pour every brilliant emotion that swells in him through their connection. Martin gasps into his mouth and Jon presses closer, and he—

Oh god, he’s in love.

He’s in  _ love. _

They separate, gasping for air. Martin’s eyes are dazed, his cheeks flushed, mouth still parted. The moment Jon regains his breath he says, “I love you.”

Martin doesn’t even hesitate. He leans over and presses a kiss to Jon’s forehead, and when he finally pulls back his eyes are wet but his smile is wide and true. “I know, Jon. Me too.”

* * *

Gerry lays on the floor, drifting in and out of consciousness, the world coming in disjointed, flaming snatches. The room around him cracks and chars, his lips taste of silver blood, and Daisy’s hazy, curse-addled eyes stare listlessly out from underneath her bushy eyebrows.

(It’s the oath. Jon made her swear that she would never hurt any of them, even under duress, and then she buried her hand into Gerry’s chest. He can’t bring himself to feel bad about it; she made her bed when she became a guard for Elias.)

The castle’s destruction burns a hole in his magic, draining him in one direction. The wound in his stomach, bleeding silver blood like mercury into the floorboards, drains him from another. Jon’s distress, his defiance against the Eye, takes the last of his strength, and he tries to give as much as he’s able, even as he knows that it’s killing him.

He aches for Martin’s hand on his brow, for the comfort of his presence. He knows that it’s a useless sentiment, that Martin is fighting for Jon and Gerry and he loves them and that should be  _ enough  _ but...it’s not.

He is so very, very tired.

He hopes that...if Martin can’t save Gerry, then he’ll at least be able to do something for Jon. If something  _ can  _ be done for Jon.

He hopes that something can be done for Jon, that Jon won’t just become a mindless agent of the Eye. The thought hurts more than the weeping wound in his chest, the slow, consistent drain of his magic, the destruction of his seat of power. He doesn’t want to die in his dusty prison, still bound by Elias’ shackles.

Oh god, what will Jon do if he wakes up to find Gerry dead? And Martin…

_ Don’t think about it. _

His eyes roll upward, and his mouth twists at the sight of the open sky overhead, the castle’s annihilation hastened all the more by his weakness. The room smolders sulkily, and he wonders when he lost time, when the walls collapsed.

_ The walls collapse in tandem with you,  _ he thinks. Then,  _ Oh good, nonsense. Charming. _

He coughs on a laugh, and Daisy’s eyelids flicker weakly at the noise. What a pair they make, strewn out across the floor, drowning in their imminent demises.

There’s a light on the horizon.

Gerry thinks it’s a vision at first; it shimmers in and out of his vision, strangely hypnotic, like something out of a dream. He frowns when the pulsing light grows brighter, when it crests in from the north and falls like a meteor toward Ilar.  _ What’s—? _

The bond that stretches between him and Jon and the Eye, the one that’s been eating him alive, clenches around his heart, and he gasps, scrabbling uselessly at his collar. The sensation fades just as quickly, and he lies there, tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, stunned and confused in equal measure.

No but—wait.  _ Wait. _

The bond is gone. Does that mean that—no, no. The bond between him and Jon is still there, still as strong as ever,  _ stronger  _ even, and...oh.  _ Oh. _

The Eye is gone.

He lifts his hands, staring at them in amazement, in wonder. His magic is no longer draining, is  _ increasing,  _ replenished by the natural world around him, and—

He jolts upright, feeling for the wound in his stomach and laughing in disbelief when he only finds a ragged hole in his shirt. He feels fine,  _ better  _ than fine, better than he’s felt in a long, long time.

He’s  _ free. _

He closes his eyes and reaches inward, almost afraid of what he’ll find after all this time, that he’ll be rebuffed once more. But just as he reaches for it, his core reaches back for him, and it feels like  _ home _ . He tips his head back, exultant, as two enormous, fiery wings explode from his back, unfurling to their full length in either direction.

He gives a few slow, experiment sweeps, and grins at the roar of furnace-hot air that tornadoes into existence. His wings tingle a bit, like limbs that have fallen asleep, but the sensation is quickly fading, and it feels  _ good. _

He gets one foot under him, but even as he rises he feels it stretch and change, growing wicked, curved talons. The other foot follows, and he shakes his head as his neck extends, overlapping with thousands of blazing feathers. He grows, and grows, and rises, resplendent and finally,  _ finally  _ whole, trailing tongues of flame that burn themselves out in the skeleton that was once his prison.

He throws his head back, opens his wickedly hooked beak and  _ screams,  _ a terrible, jubilant noise that echoes through the valley below, across the snow-capped mountain peaks. He hopes that Jon can hear him. He hopes that  _ everyone  _ can hear him, that everyone knows the shape of his freedom.

He shakes off the remnants of his human form and turns to face Daisy, inwardly smirking at the open-mouthed shock on her face. The tip of one of his blazing wings lightly brushes against her cheek, reddening the skin, a coy reminder of what he is and what he can  _ do _ .

She remains very, very, very still as she watches him, except for her jaw, which fairly snaps with tension, and her eyes, which flicker over the graceful arch of his neck, the majestic span of his wings, the celestial curve of his tail feathers. He preens at the attention, carefully fixing the already-perfect drape of his shimmering, opalescent chest feathers.

“You’re a...giant mythical bird.” It’s not quite a question, not quite an assertion. A statement of something impossible that she cannot deny because it is  _ right in front of her. _

“You catch on quick,” he rumbles.

She starts at the sound of his voice, like she hadn’t expected for him to still be able to speak. Then her surprise fades, replaced with a tired resignation. “So...this is it, then.”

“I could kill you,” he acknowledges, tossing his head, gouging lines of charcoal into the wooden floor with his talons. “Or you could help me kill Elias, and I could spare your life.”

She frowns, spreading her hands weakly before her. Every movement is slow, unsteady. It looks like it hurts. “I won’t be much help like this.”

He screeches a high, incredulous laugh, uncaring of her startled flinch. “I’m a  _ phoenix.  _ You think that’s going to be a problem?”

“Right, of course.” Daisy shakes her head, a faint, strained smile crossing her face. “Just...tell me what I need to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: depiction of a city being bombed, depiction of dogfights, attempted mental manipulation of a character, actual mental manipulation of another, vague descriptions of a serious injury. Please feel free to ask me to include any other warnings.
> 
> If you think that one of these thing may be uncomfortable to you, please feel free to message me and i will happily give you an in-depth chapter synopsis.
> 
> edit: it is VERY IMPORTANT TO ME THAT PEOPLE SEE THE FANART THAT HAS ALREADY BEEN CREATED OF THIS CHAPTER IM SO EXCITED FUCK
> 
> first of all ringingsilent made A COMIC AND IT IS SO LOVELY AND WONDERFUL I CANT STOP LOOKING AT IT!! it pretty much captures the tone of the scene and it's just....it's perfect.: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/631275776731430912/ringingsilent-spoilers-for-ch16-of)  
> 
> 
> second, eagle made this GORGEOUS PICTURE OF PHOENIX GERRY AND HE'S GORGEOUS HOLY SHIT. ALL THE LITTLE DETAILS ARE SO PERFECT AHHHHH I LOVE: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/631325076792442880/untraditionaleagle-spoilers-for-chapter-16-of)  
> please give them both some love!!!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO sorry for the delay y'all. my confidence in my writing has been pretty low these past few weeks (for no reason in particular). but im very excited to share this chapter!! it's the backstory chapter!! it reveals all!! hope you enjoy!!! and i just wanted to say how grateful i am to pit for beta-ing this chapter for me and letting me bounce ideas off of her ;_; 
> 
> also,,,,,,i think this is the longest chapter yet. so hopefully that will make up for the wait?
> 
> content warnings for: mild injuries, mentions of emotional neglect, jonah being manipulative, mentions of bombings

**_Then_ **

_Jon glanced nervously out of the window, biting his lip at the way the wind was howling. The storm had been slowly rolling down the mountains for the past hour, but it was the wind whipping through the trees, tearing out leaves and loose branches, that really worried him. He knew that he was safe in his room, in his house, reading the book his gran had given him. There was no reason for him to be concerned about the black clouds overhead, or the way the air grew heavy with impending rain, but…_

_The nest. The little one that Jon had been keeping his eye on for a while now, the one he was pretty sure had been abandoned. Every morning he walked by it to get to school, and every morning he heard pathetic but still determined, still persistent chirping, like the little creature was insisting that_ no, I have not given up.

_But this morning, gran had looked at the clouds high above the mountains, tasted the fresh breeze, and immediately said, “This one is going to be a bad one.” It wasn’t the first time his gran had made predictions regarding the weather. She was a casual magic practitioner, but that usually meant that she made the occasional ominous portent that Jon could have predicted if he’d thought about it for more than two seconds._

_But this storm was apparently going to be a really,_ really _bad one, and that little nest, that little bird, was all on its own in the unforgiving night._

_Jon looked down at his book, at the words swimming in circles on the page. Looked out the window again, and almost jumped when there was the soft pit-a-pat of the rain starting._

_He was warm and dry in his room, and that little bird was out there in the storm, helpless and abandoned, and—_

_The book closed with a decisive_ snap _, and Jon rose to his feet, mouth twisted into a resolute grimace. He grabbed his water-proof leather coat from his closet and pulled it around his shoulders, tightening the straps to make sure that they were secure. Then he clambered on top of his desk, threw his window open, and carefully lowered himself onto the roof._

_Ten minutes later, he was sprinting through the forest, his breath heavy and labored in his chest, peering up into the treetops. Usually it was easy to tell what was what, but with the wind growing ever stronger and the rain pouring in sheets over his head, he couldn’t seem to find any of his normal landmarks. For a second he thought about calling out, but that would be ridiculous. It wasn’t like the bird would hear, much less think to respond._

_Jon scrubbed frantically at his eyes, peering hard through the roiling clouds of leaves, and almost lost his footing over a root. He staggered, stumbled, but didn’t fall, just barely managing to right himself—_

_And then he heard it. That pathetic, determined chirping. It was almost hysterical with terror, and Jon felt his heart tighten at the sound of it._

_“I’m coming!” he shouted, shielding his face from the howling wind. He was lucky that the trees were buffering the wind, or he would’ve been knocked sheer off his feet by now._

_The nest was hidden in the fork of a branch. Normally it seemed quite stable—the mother had picked a shrewd spot to build her nest—but even as Jon watched, scraps of the nest were flung into the breeze, swirling away. He winced, knowing that he didn’t have much time, and levered himself up onto the lowest branch._

_The climb was...well. To say it was precarious would be an understatement. By the time Jon was on the branch that held the nest, he was trembling with terror and huffing from exertion. There were scrapes all over his hands, and his jacket was torn clean through on one side, but he had made it._

_Jon peered into the nest. Just as he’d suspected, there was only one chick in there, but it looked worse than he’d thought it would. It was tiny and lacked feathers, its eyes crimped tightly shut as it chirped._

It’s lucky it didn’t fall _, Jon thought grimly, and made to scoop it into his pocket._

_Either he’d underestimated how strong it was, or its survival instincts were especially pugnacious, because one second Jon was reaching for the bird, and the next a sharp beak was clenched around his finger, biting down hard. He screamed and made to jerk away, but realized just in time that might hurt it._

_He sat there for a moment, breathing hard, feeling tears of pain well up in his eyes as the bird continued to hold on._ It’s just scared, _he told himself as air shuddered in and out of his nose, as the tree they were sitting in groaned dangerously._

_He...he understood. He understood what it was like to be small and defenseless in a world of people who were bigger and meaner than you._

_“It’s okay,” he managed, blinking away tears of pain. “It’s okay. I know you’re scared. I’m trying to help.”_

_The chick didn’t react for a second, the sharp tip of its beak still sunk into his finger, blood oozing from the gash. Jon waited, but for what he could not say._

_Then the baby slowly, tentatively let go. Gently nudged closer to Jon’s finger, nibbling at the knuckle as though in apology, in a way that made Jon go almost breathless. For a moment it was just Jon and this little bird, insulated and isolated from the storm in this quiet atmosphere of anticipation, of the creation of something fragile and precious._

_Then the wind let out a howl that was impossible to ignore, and Jon’s head jerked when something hard and wet slammed into his temple. For a moment he wavered unsteadily, wondering why the world was rocking like a boat on the ocean, before the sound of frantic chirping dragged him back, gasping and shaking, into the present._

_“Time to go,” Jon shouted, once more reaching to scoop the bird from its nest and settling it carefully into his jacket pocket. This time, it didn’t resist._

_The run back to Jon’s house felt like it took forever. He kept stumbling over roots, kept shaking his head, wet hair whipping about his face, to try and see better. All the while, he kept one hand against his pocket, firmly tucking the bird against his side, trying to keep it from getting jostled too much. By the time he finally saw his house again, he was dripping water, his head throbbing with pain._

_(In retrospect, he was so, so lucky. The lightning that night had been ferocious, the wind and rain unforgiving. He should have been struck by lightning. He should have tripped over his own two feet and fell to the ground, crushing the little bird in his pocket. He should have been anything but lucky, but—but he was.)_

_He didn’t know how he managed the climb back into his bedroom. But he unsteadily threaded his way up the side of the house and rolled (carefully, so carefully) over the windowsill, landing on the carpet with a pathetic groan. He gave himself a moment to feel every ache, to shiver in the cold, before pushing himself upright and retrieving his precious cargo from his pocket._

_“Hi,” Jon whispered, staring at the chick shivering in the palm of his hand. “My name is Jon. I’ll take care of you until you’re feeling better, okay?”_

_The bird let out a weak chirp and curled closer to his cupped hands, starved for warmth. Jon felt his heart twist at how bedraggled it looked, and hurried to fetch a towel from his closet._

* * *

**_Now_ **

Martin staggers backward and away from the Eye, clutching his head in his hand, trying to process everything that he’d just been shown. It had been a memory— _Jon’s_ memory—but it had felt so vivid, like he was experiencing it in Jon’s place. Like he had lived it himself.

Judging from the dark, coniferous forest and the familiar two-story wooden house, that had been Tellorin, Jon’s hometown. But what was that featherless chick all about? Jon had looked pretty young in that memory, so the bird was probably long dead, unless—how long did birds live? He can’t remember off the top of his head.

Wait, no. That isn’t important right now.

Martin shakes off the remnants of the memory, the emotions that had nestled in his heart, and takes a firm step forward. He knows that he probably isn’t that intimidating, not to something as powerful as this, but it’s the principle of it. “That doesn’t help me,” he says sternly. “I need to know how to break the curse.”

The Eye blinks at him languidly, like a lazy cat waking up from a nap. It obviously doesn’t feel the same urgency that Martin does, and that only serves to make him more anxious. Gerry and Jon are in _trouble_ and could be _dying_ and he doesn’t have time to sit around waiting for the Eye to figure out what it wants him to know!

 **_Catalyst,_ **the Eye intones at length.

Martin throws his hands into the air in frustration. “What does that even _mean?_ A catalyst for what?”

 **_Catalyst,_ **it repeats, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say there was a note of frustration in its voice.

 _Okay._ Okay, so the Eye can only communicate in cryptic, one-word statements that he has to parse the meaning out of like a riddle. The stakes if he fails? Jon and Gerry’s lives. It would sound like the plot of a fantasy novel, except Martin is no protagonist. He’s not brave, or powerful; just a very scared, very confused man who’s attempting to be smarter than he actually is.

Catalyst. Noun. _Something that precipitates an event._

“Did…” Martin frowns. “Did that meeting with the bird, did that lead to Jon getting cursed somehow…?”

He doesn’t get any warning before the next memory slams him into him—

* * *

**_Then_ **

_Jon was curled up against his headboard, a book splayed open on his lap. It was big, almost dwarfing his thin, spindly legs, and he squinted at it sternly, nibbling his lip as his eyes ran down the page. A boy with burnt orange eyes and rusty red hair, who looked to be a couple of years younger, slotted neatly against Jon’s side, blinking drowsily at the words._

_After a few moments, the boy lifted his head from Jon’s shoulder and let out a strange, echoing trill. Then, even more odd, he reached up and carefully caught the cartilage of Jon’s ear between his fingers, rubbing gently._

_“Stop that,” Jon ordered without looking up, pushing the boy’s hand away. “I have to finish this for school.”_

_“I’m bored,” the boy whined, nestling back into Jon’s shoulder petulantly. “Wanna do magic.”_

_Jon sighed in disgust and let the book flop back in his lap with a loud, painful sounding_ thump. _“You_ always _want to do magic.”_

_The boy let out another trill, though this time it sounded almost...mournful? “Mmm. S’fun.”_

_Jon shushed him, absently smoothing a flyaway hair on the boy’s head before picking up the book again. The boy made a few more agitated, unhappy noises, before settling back down, rubbing the sleeve of Jon’s shirt between his fingertips. A lush breeze blew through the open window, bringing with it the scent of rain and wildflowers and crisp mountain air._

_Finally, Jon closed the book and set it aside, before giving the boy a quick onceover to make sure that he hadn’t fallen asleep. At first it seemed as though he had—but after a moment of scrutiny the boy’s eyes flickered open, and he yawned a wide, jaw cracking yawn. “Are you done?”_

_“Yes.” Jon raised a judgemental eyebrow. “Are you going to take a nap?”_

_The boy had the audacity to look affronted at that, like he hadn’t been falling asleep not two seconds ago. His newfound energy revitalized him, and he leapt to his feet and crowed with impetuous, passionate youth, “No, let’s do magic!”_

_And then—_

_Tiny, flaming wings burst from his shoulders, devouring the sleeves of his black and white striped shirt. He took a running leap from the bed and transformed midair into a tiny, flaming bird, twisting in acrobatic circles around the top of the room. He shrilled a series of high pitched trilling noises, seemingly too excited to contain himself._

_“Gerry!” Jon hissed, sending a nervous look toward the door of his room. “Gerry get_ down, _gran might hear you!”_

Martin gaped. _Gerry?_

_Gerry made one last circuit of the room, before descending back to the bed in a trail of feathers and flame. He shook himself, and a moment later a little boy was once more sitting on the bed, pouting repentantly._

_“Sorry Jon,” Gerry said, and then immediately shuffled over and tucked himself under Jon’s chin._

_Jon let out a sigh and patted Gerry’s back. “It’s...it’s fine. Just try not to do it again.”_

_“Mmmm,” Gerry hummed agreeably. Then he jerked up so fast that the top of his head knocked into the underside of Jon’s chin, forcing his jaw shut with an unpleasant_ click. _“Oh Jon, look! Look what I can do!”_

_Gerry reached up and framed his rusty red locks with his hands, closing his eyes tight in concentration. For a moment nothing happened, except for Jon watching him with a confused, somewhat pained look on his face as he rubbed his tender jaw._

_At first it could be mistaken for a trick of the light; but no, slowly but surely Gerry’s rusty red hair went darker and darker, until it turned into a color as black as obsidian. He lowered his hands, looking pleased as punch, practically bouncing he was so excited._

_Jon looked gratifyingly stunned. “Gerry, that’s…”_

_“It looks just like yours now!” Gerry chirped, eyes crinkling at the corners with the force of his smile._

_That_ really _seemed to set Jon back on his heels, so much so that his jaw worked silently for a couple of seconds, struck speechless. Finally he nodded, then nodded again, stiffly, awkwardly, as though he didn’t know what to do with such regard. “Well—I’m, uh. Thank you.”_

_It seemed to please Gerry well enough, though, because he beamed and let out a few quiet, pleased chirps. Then, “Here, why don’t you try?”_

_Jon’s mouth twisted into a frustrated, helpless frown. “Gerry, you know I can’t do that sort of thing.”_

_Gerry reached out and began tugging on Jon’s sleeve, his cheeks puffed out in the perfect picture of immature frustration. “You can, though.”_

_“I can’t.” Jon gently disentangled Gerry’s hands from his sleeve and looked him firmly in the eye. “Your magic is really special. My gran says I’ll be able to do magic when I’m older.”_

_Gerry’s pout deepened. “I can show you.”_

_Jon’s eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment. “What?”_

_“Here.” And before he could react, Gerry tucked Jon’s hands in his. Their hands were a study in contrasts; Jon’s were slightly bigger and several shades darker, his fingers slender like a musician’s._

_And then Gerry flooded Jon with his magic, bringing to life the network that ran through his whole body. Jon gasped at the force of it, his eyes turning the same blue as the crackling electricity that coursed through his veins, setting him alight from the inside out. He shuddered, and he breathed, and he—_

_Saw._

_“Oh,” Jon whispered in awe._

_“Do you know how to do it now?” Gerry asked excitedly, swinging their joined hands._

_“I, um,” he let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, I do actually.” And then he closed his eyes and concentrated, and a couple of seconds later his hair turned a vibrant, eye-searing shade of orange. “Woah.”_

_Gerry didn’t seem to appreciate the change. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Ew. I like black better.”_

_A mischievous smile crossed Jon’s face. “Oh, do you now?” He waved a hand in the direction of his hair, and it went all neon green and curly. “What about this? Do you think this looks better?”_

_Gerry fell back onto the bed, giggling and kicking his little feet. “No! Noooo, change it back!”_

* * *

**_Now_ **

Martin falls back into the present with Gerry’s shrieking giggles still ringing in his mind. He gapes at the Eye for a moment, trying to process what he’s just seen, but all he can manage is—”What? _What?_ Is Gerry—is he a _phoenix?”_

Martin knows what a phoenix is, of _course_ he does. Everyone knows what phoenixes are. They’re supposedly one of the most powerful magical creatures on the planet—supposedly, because they’re also one of the most rare. Hardly anyone has actually seen one. The ones who have claim that phoenixes have powerful magical abilities, including shapeshifting, healing, clairvoyance...

_I can see potential. Possibility._

Gerry, who thinks it’s hilarious to pour his food down his throat like a shot of alcohol. Gerry, who beams whenever Martin offers to make his favorite food. Gerry, who enjoys making complicated braids of Jon’s hair, who’s strangely attracted to shiny knicknacks, who…

In retrospect, the whole _giant bird_ thing makes a lot more sense.

And then—

Gerry had said that he’d taught Jon magic, but Martin hadn’t thought too hard about the wording. In retrospect, the fact that he’d been ‘too excited at being able to share magic with someone else’ to think about the repercussions of teaching Jon magic when he was eight makes a lot more sense if Gerry had been _too young to know better._ Gerry had looked to be around five years old or so in that memory.

Not important right now. He needs to figure out why this is relevant to Jon’s curse rather than just standing here gaping like an idiot.

What had Gerry once said? That he had taught Jon how to do magic too young, and that was the reason that he followed a different set of magical laws now? Wouldn’t that mean—

“Jon learning magic that young was what led to him being as powerful as he is now,” Martin begins, thinking the words through even as says them. “That’s why Elias was interested in him, wasn’t it? For his magic?”

There’s a pause, and then—

* * *

**_Then_ **

_Jon was almost eleven the first time he showed someone other than Gerry his magic._

_When he was younger, he’d begged for his gran to teach him how to do magic, entranced by the small tricks that she showed him. She’d always shaken her head, telling him that it was dangerous to teach someone as young as he how to do magic, and she was_ busy _anyway. Eventually, he’d stopped asking._

_But one day she turned to him and said, with the air of one bestowing a great favor, “Jon, did you still want to learn magic?”_

_Jon glanced at her for a moment, eyebrows raised in surprise, before shrugging and turning back to pick at his food. He didn’t mind the flavor so much. It was the texture that bothered him. “Nah, that’s okay.”_

_Jon’s gran frowned, looking torn between confusion and frustration. “You used to_ beg _me to teach you magic. What’s made you change your mind?”_

 _Jon bit down on his instinctive response, which was to say that that had been_ years _ago and he hadn’t bothered her about it in ages, so why was she bringing it up now? She always did this, assuming that his interests remained stagnant even over the course of several years._

_Instead he said, “It’s fine. I already know how to do it.”_

_He didn’t notice the stillness that elicited, the way her face went strange and tight. He only tensed and looked up properly when he heard the sharpness of her voice. “What do you mean? Who taught you?”_

_Jon stared at her mutely with wide, dark eyes, suddenly hyper aware of the fact that he’d said something wrong, and terrified of making it worse. He hadn’t thought that learning magic was a_ bad _thing, but maybe he was wrong. When it came to his gran, it was so easy to be wrong._

_He was quiet for too long. His gran’s scowl deepened and she said, low and warning, “Jon.”_

_Jon opened his mouth to respond, but then paused._

_He’d been doing a lot more research into magical creatures lately, specifically phoenixes. It hadn’t been for any specific reason, except that he’d been curious about Gerry._

_What he’d found had made him feel ill, had made him want to spirit his little, cheerful friend away somewhere safe, where no one could touch him. Because phoenixes were rare and powerful, and their tears, when combined with certain herbs, were excellent good luck charms, and their blood was rumored to cure people of terminal disease, and their hearts—_

_Years ago, he and Gerry had been exploring the forest nearby, and Gerry had tripped over a root. He’d skinned one of his knees quite badly, and he’d wailed and wept over the oozing, silver scrape like he’d just lost a limb. It had taken Jon almost five minutes of continuous rocking and hushed reassurances to calm him down._

_All it had taken was a well-placed root and a moment of clumsiness to cause him to burst into tears. Imagining what a group of people with malintent could do caused a thrill of horror to run down his spine._

_He loved his gran a lot. But he wasn’t sure what she would do to Gerry, and he would_ never _take risks with his friend’s life._

_So he shrugged again and said, “I, uh. I read about it?”_

_Predictably, she was not very impressed. She was even less impressed when he demonstrated his command of all fourteen affinities and the way his magic flourished beyond its natural boundaries, curious and searching as though it was alive. She had been so unimpressed that she’d dragged him by the arm to the ancient man who had been tutoring magic users for longer than anyone could remember and demanded, “What can be done?”_

_They were afraid of the way his magic had developed, seemingly too wild and too fast, without any external influence. They interrogated him about his past actions, the places he tended to frequent, the friends he had made and lost, favoring him with wary, watchful eyes the whole time._

_He knew that he could’ve fixed it if he’d just told them about the little phoenix that occasionally fluttered through his window. They would’ve known that between tales about his latest adventures, Gerry took Jon’s hands and showed him how to do more magic, how to immerse himself in the natural world rather than be consumed by it_ . _But the thought of putting Gerry in danger, who looked at Jon as though he’d hung all the stars in the sky, who Jon had nursed back to health after the thunderstorm all those years ago…._

_Inconceivable._

_So he bit his lip as the people around him became distant, observed him with either clinical fascination or barely-concealed fear. And whenever a little phoenix fluttered through his window and looked at him with all the admiration and fondness that a person could muster, he smiled, and forgot his disquiet for a moment._

* * *

**_Now_ **

He puts his hand over his mouth, breathing hard through his nose.

From the little tidbits he’s learned over the past few weeks, he’d thought that Jon and his gran had had a...complicated relationship, certainly. Tense, possibly. But Jon—Jon had been wary of her for Gerry’s sake, like he was expecting her to rip the young phoenix away from him without another word. And Jon’s _gran—_

She’d been frightened of his magic.

It had been obvious to Jon, who was far more observant than anyone gave him credit for, even back then. Their relationship had been fraught before then, strained by such things as _obligation_ and _owing_ versus _being owed._ After he’d revealed his magic to her, she’d paced and worried and observed him with wary uncertainty, as though she anticipated his magic doing something else strange and unwanted. As though _he_ was strange and unwanted.

And it didn’t matter whether or not she was afraid _of_ Jon or _for_ Jon, because she _never said._

It didn’t matter what her intentions had been back then, because every time she asked him pointed questions or brought him to another doctor, he felt the distance between them yawn ever wider. There had been no relief, no sign that she still felt any lingering warmth toward her grandson, nothing that he could hold onto besides when she instructed him to watch quietly while she cooked. For the most part, she’d shut him out, gave him no reason to look to her for kindness or guidance.

No _wonder_ he hadn’t said anything about Gerry.

That hadn’t been the end of it, either. He had only been able to get small glimpses, but the other kids in the village heard about Jon’s strange magical ability, and treated him poorly for it. They already disliked him for his stubbornness and his tendency to treat them like they were idiots—what was one more reason to be cruel?

Jon had been painfully scared and painfully young and painfully _alone,_ for so many _years,_ and—

“Isolation!” The word slips from between his lips before he even knows he’s going to say it. Then he shakes his head, wringing his hands in his distress. “He was—he was alone. That’s it, isn’t it? No one tried to help him besides Gerry _._ He was desperate for, for any sort of, of magical _guidance…”_

Oliver said that Jon had been doing an apprenticeship with Elias.

Oh. Oh _no._

Before he can voice his suspicions however, he falls forward once more—

* * *

**_Then_ **

_Jonah was beginning to get….impatient._

_He was normally a patient man; it was a skill he’d practiced during his many years at court, smiling politely and acting charming while old, doddering fools vied for his favor. He knew how to hold back, how to play the game, how to dance the dance that the other elites were so fond of. But more than that, he was_ better _at it than they were. There was a reason he’d managed to maintain his position as royal magical advisor for the past century._

_So in theory, he could be patient. It was just—_

_Jonah let out a low, sigh and dropped his face into his hands, momentarily dispensing with propriety in favor of a bit of performative catharsis. It was just that all of these applicants were so_ underwhelming. _The majority of them lacked the magical ability to be more than a snack for the Eye; the few more powerful ones were all arrogant, strong-willed creatures who would be more difficult to control than he was comfortable with._

_He needed someone who was just the perfect cocktail of powerful and naive, susceptible to subtle influence but not unintelligent. Such people were rare, but surely at least one person who sort of fulfilled those requirements would walk through the door._

_Surely._

_Perhaps he had been too ambitious. While he didn’t like the idea of settling, he liked the idea of going another year without an apprentice even less. It was customary for magic advisors to take multiple apprentices at a time, to train them into powerful tools for the kingdom. Jonah was often criticized for how picky he was, for shunning potentially powerful candidates for no reason at all._

_The Eye was an impatient, gluttonous creature though, which rapidly consumed the scraps he fed it and then demanded more. He couldn’t afford to waste his time on those who would be of no use to him. No, he needed someone powerful who he could bind to the Eye, someone interesting, who would keep it occupied for a good long while…_

_There was a sharp, perfunctory knock on his door._

_Jonah let out one last sigh before lifting his head, consciously forcing his expression back into something neutral and polite. “Who is it?”_

_“Your next appointment is here, sir.”_

_Jonah bit down on a frustrated groan. Another appointment, another_ dis _appointment. “Send them in.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_He leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering over the delicate filigree that laced across the walls. Most would think that Jonah was satisfied here in his seat of power, clothed in some of the finest fabrics the world had to offer. But there was no satisfaction in opulence, no relief to his restlessness in his social connections._

_There were always more limits to break, more boundaries to shatter. And who better than Jonah to shatter them?_

_There was another knock on his door, quiet this time, and Jonah preemptively rolled his eyes._ Timid, probably. _He did so hate the timid ones. “Come in.”_

_The man who opened the door was small, with silver-streaked black hair, heavy eyebrows, and an uncertain expression on his face. He hunched over on himself, shoulders concaving, as though he were trying to appear even smaller than he already was. His clothes might have been in style almost twenty years ago, and they made him look frumpy and old, like a grandmother._

_Jonah would’ve told him to leave right then and there if he hadn’t directed magic to his eyes and turned on his Sight._

_It took everything in him not to react as color exploded across his vision; forest green trimmed with a brilliant flame, sickly yellow twists shimmering with pale opalescence, and more color, and more_ color _. It turned the room into a chaotic, sickening kaleidoscope, overlaid over and onto and around each other. He wasn’t sure where to focus, or even_ how _to focus._

_He’d never seen anything like it._

_Jonah blinked, forcing himself back into the present. The echoes of the magic that filled the room to bursting still lingered over his vision, tantalizing and breathtaking in equal measure._

_This._ This _was the power he was looking for._

_After a moment, Jonah regained enough composure to smile a wide, charming smile and say, “Please, introduce yourself.”_

_The man peered at him nervously from under his shock of black and silver hair, completely oblivious to Jonah’s reaction. His expression was guarded, yes, but there was something vulnerable just underneath the surface, like a dog that’d been beaten one too many times. “Jonathan Sims,” he said stiffly. “From Tellorin.”_

_Jonah raised a curious eyebrow. “You’re quite a ways from the Northern border.”_

_The tension in Jonathan’s shoulders increased minutely. “The distance was worth the opportunity to study in the Capital.”_

_“I see.” Jonah didn’t need the Eye’s influence to know that there was a story there; he could almost see it written across Jonathan’s skin like the page of a book. He just needed to tease it out, to slip around the guarded wariness that crouched in the sharp planes of the man’s face. “Your magic is impressive, if a little untrained.”_

Malleable, _he didn’t say._

_The hardness wavered for a moment, and Jonah caught a flicker of hope, a glimpse of eyes that were starving for any scrap of approval. Then the walls were thrown back up, the vulnerability once more secreted away. Jonathan nodded, the very image of a haughty student accepting his due. “Thank you, sir.”_

_Peter had once told Jonah that he had a smile that was sweet like the honey you baited a bear trap with: deceptively saccharine, cloyingly sweet, with a dangerous bite at the end. Jonah usually tried not to take the things Peter said too seriously—he didn’t keep the man around for his intelligence, after all—but as the corners of his lips turned upward, he couldn’t help but think that might be some truth there after all._

* * *

**_Now_ **

Martin has been in a lot of uncomfortable situations as of late, what with his curse, then the capital, then his mother. He’s no stranger to feeling off kilter, to staggering as the world rearranges itself beneath his feet.

That being said, he’s never experienced something quite so off putting as the inside of Elias’ head.

He hadn’t even noticed the slight cognitive dissonance with Jon’s memories when he was experiencing them; he’s only able to recognize it now because it’d been so much more _potent_ in Jonah’s. But there’s a—a sort of friction, a disconnect, that leaves him so dizzy and disoriented that he’s almost nauseous with it.

Well, that could also be because of the content of Jonah’s mind.

But— _god,_ Jonah’s mind had felt _wrong._ Insidious and subtle, full of minute justifications and moral restructuring that had led Martin right around to the horrible yet seemingly logical conclusion. There had been no way to fight against it, because it hadn’t felt like something that should be fought _against._

Jonah had seen Jon’s power, had seen his isolation and old, exhausted desperation for approval, and his first thought had been to mold Jon into the perfect well of power for the Eye. And Martin had—

Shit. He feels sick. He feels raw, too sensitive, like his nerve endings are all full of lightning. He wants to go back in time and spirit that young, unscarred version of Jon away from Jonah so that nothing and no one can hurt him.

Most of all, though, he wants for this to be over.

He’d been momentarily distracted by the draw of Jon’s memories, but Jonah’s mind had been terribly, horribly grounding. He’s in the capital playing actual mind games with a quasi-god while Gerry is bleeding out in the ruins of the castle, and Jon is succumbing to his curse. He’s wasting time he can’t afford; he needs to get out of here, _right now._

“Enough!” Martin shouts, advancing on the glowing pedestal. “Enough. Show me how to help them, or…” he falters, unsure of whether or not he can convincingly threaten the Beholding into complying with his demands, then shakes his head. “Please, just _help_ me.”

There’s a brief, nerve wracking pause, where Martin wonders if he’s finally overstepped, if the Eye is about to smite him. Then he blinks, and—

* * *

**_Then_ **

_“Elias, um….”_

_It had been five long years since Jon had first become Elias’ apprentice. Five years of constant, intense study, of all-nighters in the library, of doing every task that was ever asked of him, no matter how menial. It was all worth it, however; his magic thrummed beneath his skin, as natural as breathing. He didn’t feel like he was at odds with himself anymore, like he had to clamp down on his power._

_He felt good. That was more than he expected when he first came to the capital. But according to Elias, he had one more task to complete, one more lesson to learn._

_Elias turned around and smiled at Jon, his smile as earnest and wide—_

_Jonah,_ Martin knows, and he glares at the man, the _monster_ , wishing that he had the power to kill someone with just his eyes.

_—and said, “Just a little farther.”_

_Jon didn’t mean to question Elias—Elias_ hated _to be questioned unnecessarily—but his and Gerry’s last conversation was still fresh in his mind, and he needed to know that he hadn’t just irrevocably fucked up. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”_

_“All in good time, Jon,” Elias said, his tone almost jovial._

_Jon bit his lip as they continued to descend, far deeper than Jon would’ve expected the palace to go._

_Just yesterday morning, Gerry had swept into their apartment, his raven form melting into his human one almost before he’d gotten all the way through the window. His face had been grim, his eyes a worried, yellow-orange inferno. He’d told Jon that they needed to get out of the capital now, that whatever danger he’d portented regarding Elias was about to come to pass, and that the safest way to weather it was to be as far away from the epicenter as possible._

_Jon had refused. Elias had promised something big, something grand, and they were so close to the end, and Jon was_ curious, _okay? He was curious. He needed to know what this danger was, because—because what if the citizens of the capital were in peril? What if he could have stopped some great calamity, and didn’t? He needed to know, Gerry, he needed to_ know, _he would never be satisfied unless he knew._

_Gerry had seemed unconvinced, but had eventually conceded. There was nothing he could do to stop Jon, anyway._

_He only hoped that the repercussions of his decision weren’t as deadly as Gerry thought they would be._

_“Here we are,” Elias said, stopping in front of an ebony door at the base of the stairs. He turned the knob and pushed it open, straining a little at the weight of it, before gesturing for Jon to walk through._

_Jon stared at the open doorway, some primal fear rearing up in his stomach, screaming that something was very, very wrong. He didn’t know why, though, he could_ see _what was on the other side of the door, it was just...just a regular hallway. It was a regular hallway, so why was he so frightened?_

_“I…” Jon took a stuttering step forward, then back again, stumbling on the stair behind him. His heart was pounding too fast in his chest. “I don’t want to.”_

_Elias frowned, as though Jon was being difficult on purpose. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Jon.”_

_He didn’t know how to justify the terror that gripped his entire being, so intense that he could feel worry bleeding from the other side of his bond with Gerry. For whatever reason, he Knew that whatever was on the other side of that door was something horrible. “I can’t.”_

_Something dark flitted across Elias’ face, but it was replaced by a small, indulgent smile so quickly that Jon was sure that he’d imagined it. “I promise, nothing here is going to hurt you.” A pause as Elias seemed to mull over the situation. Then, “What if we went through together?”_

_Jon didn’t want to go through, regardless of whether or not Elias went with him. He couldn’t move though, his legs trembling so hard that he felt he might topple over if he took another step. But then there was a hand at Jon’s elbow, steadying at first, then far, far too tight, and he was being pulled through the door._

_“Stop!” Jon shouted, trying to jerk away—_

_But it was too late._

_The magic circle that’d been embedded in the floor, lying in wait, snapped into being around Jon, wrapping around his arms, his legs, immobilizing him. He didn’t need to look to see that Elias wasn’t affected, was watching the events with cool, faintly interested eyes._

_Jon’s magic roared into life around him, going to attack his bindings—but somewhere behind him Elias reached out, quick as a snake and casual as anything, and expertly caught it. They’d—they’d practiced this together, Jon suddenly remembered with growing horror. Elias had shown Jon how to control his magic, had watched the movements, had memorized the shape and feel of it._

He was figuring out how to counter it, _Jon thought, his mouth going dry._

_He could do nothing but stare as Elias slowly walked around the circle and into view. He considered Jon, as indifferent as a lepidopterologist studying a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. Jon’s breathing slowly increased, shaky and too loud in the anticipation laden air._

_At length, he murmured, “I’d wondered whether or not you would be able to sense that something was wrong. You’re a bit like a phoenix in that respect. There’s not a reason for that, is there?”_

_Jon’s mind went blank except for one word:_ Gerry.

_He wasn’t sure what Elias was planning, but whatever happened, he could not find out about Gerry. It was with that thought in mind that he slammed his and Gerry’s bond shut, cutting off the increasingly frantic, familiar concern that rippled from the other end._

_If nothing else, he would make sure that Gerry was safe._

_Elias studied him for one breathless moment longer, before shrugging and turning away. “No matter. I’ll have plenty of time to figure you out in the next few years.”_

Years? _Jon wondered._

_“Your magic is a perfect power source, after all,” Elias shrugged, sounding curiously detached from his own words. “And you’re so unusual, you’re practically a magical creature. You’ll probably be enough to keep the Eye occupied for the next few years.”_

Oh, Gerry, _Jon thought despairingly._ I should’ve listened to you.

_Then he looked past Elias—_

And straight into Martin’s eyes.

Martin knows that he only has a few seconds, and he stumbles forward, reaching for Jon. “Jon!” he shouts, knowing that this moment is more important than any other, that Jon will come looking for him, as long as Martin’s voice can _reach_ him. “Come find me in the future!”

_And then Elias was standing in front of him, blocking his view of the strange man, one hand reaching for his forehead. “Sleep now,” Elias told him, smiling that familiar smile, all snake oil and smoke. “All will be well.”_

_And then Jon was gone._

_..._

_Jonah lowered his hand, watching carefully to make sure that the curse took hold, that it settled into Jon’s bones, his marrow. If cast correctly, it would be impossible to budge without some extremely powerful assistance, which Elias was sure Jon didn’t have access to._

_Elias felt his smile go wide, sharp, triumphant. Success tasted sweet in his mouth._

_Only one more thing to do._

_Elias reached out and laid the tips of his fingers on the left side of Jon’s chest, just above his heart. It pounded frantically, as though it knew what was about to happen and was straining to escape._

Much too late for that, _Elias thought, and drew it from Jon’s chest, cupping it carefully in his hand. The Eye would be wanting this somewhere nearby, where it could study and covet._

_And with that, he began walking down the hall, sure of his victory._

_..._

_It was quiet except for Jon’s weeping. He curled into a ball on the ground, clutching at his chest, at the place where his heart sat cold and numb. He could feel the curse weaving through his whole body, pinning down his magic, quieting his will. He was so, so alone amidst the towering marble columns and the weak, flickering lights that floated on either side of the hall._

_Then there was a click. The sound was hard to place now, but later one would know exactly what it was: the sound of a spark, of something catching alight._

_There was a glow in the distance, at the very end of the long hallway. It reflected across the glass, spinning dramatic shapes across the floor, sending rainbow flickers in every direction. It and the strange roar intensified in tandem, a low, persistent rumbling that filled the whole of the space._

_Jon lifted himself onto his elbow and looked up, his face stained with tears, eyes red. His lips parted with tentative hope, and—_

_The source of the light and the rumbling grew closer, almost palpable. If it was noticeable before, it was dramatic now, oppressive. There was a loud_ fwoosh, _a piercing shriek that ended like a song, and then a comet of flame streaked into the hall, almost too fast to see. The flame circled once, twice, and Jon’s face crumpled, and he reached toward the impressive ball of fire, alive with oranges and reds and blues._

_The flame stopped, resolved._

_Its wingspan was easily twice as large as an eagle’s, and brilliantly alight, so much so that it was almost painful to look at. Its crest was a long trail of sparks that faded into drifting ash, its tail shimmering, majestic coils of feathers. It was unmistakably, unarguably a phoenix, one of the most powerful, rarest creatures on the planet._

_This beautiful creature plummeted from the sky in a shower of rainbow flame—_

_The claws lengthened, flatten, fading into black soles, many-buckled boots. The majestic wings, framed by heat that boiled the air, blackens, darkened, shrunk, until they were the strange, soft leather tails of a trench coat. That sharp beak flattened and grew, and those orange eyes went round, and then Gerry was falling from the sky and into Jon’s arms._

_They clung to each other for a moment, Jon weeping into Gerry’s shoulder, Gerry’s arms engulfing Jon’s small frame._

_“Gerry,” Jon gasped out. “Elias, he—”_

_“I know,” Gerry’s voice was shaky. “I know, Jon.”_

_“He has my magic, Gerry,” Jon continued, inconsolable, shaking his head. He lifted his hands, staring at them, like he could see some filth that no one else could. “It’s all—it’s all...I can’t—I—it’s in my head, it’s in my_ head— _”_

_Gerry paused for a moment, biting his lip. There was trepidation in his orange eyes, but determination, too._

_“Jon,” he said slowly. “Do you trust me?”_

_Jon frowned, eyes flickering from green to dark brown, to green again. His voice trembled with the effort it took to stay present as he said, “Gerry?”_

_“Do you trust me?” Gerry repeated, staring intently._

_Jon seemed unconcerned by the intensity of his gaze. He wiped the tears from his eyes and sat up straighter. “You know I do,” he said helplessly, covering one of Gerry’s hands with his own._

_“I can shift part of the curse to me,” Gerry told him. “It won’t—won’t break the binding, but you’ll be able to leave. We’ll be able to escape together.”_

_“Gerry,” Jon’s eyes widened, got wider by the second as he took that in and all that it entailed. “You’re not suggesting—no. I can’t let you do that to yourself.”_

_Gerry shook his head and flipped over his palm, taking Jon’s hand in his own and squeezing. “And leave you here with Elias? Let you be locked up and drained for the Eye’s pleasure, day after day?” Another tear slipped down Jon’s face, and Gerry brushed it away with his free hand. “Don’t make me do that.”_

_“I don’t want to...to bind you to me. To the Eye,” Jon’s resolve was crumbling, though._

_“I trust you,” Gerry said simply, like it was easy, like it was obvious. Like it was the only thing that mattered. “We can figure out how to break the curse together.”_

_Jon bit his lip, looking anxious and uncertain, dwarfed in Gerry’s trench coat, face still streaked with tears. Gerry watched him steadily, patiently._

_After a moment, Jon nodded, slowly at first, but then with certainty._

_Gerry nodded and held out his other hand. Jon took it, and then dipped his forehead so it rested against Gerry’s. For a split second there was the afterimage of flames, of wings stretching from wall to wall._

_And then there was nothing._

* * *

**_Now_ **

Martin looks at the Beholding, thrumming calmly on its pedestal. Looks at the pulsing light that rests just beneath it, defiantly bright, as though determined not to be outshone by the presence of the quasi-god.

“That’s his heart,” Martin intones.

The Eye is silent.

He—he understands everything, now. The events that preceded the curse, the dominoes that knocked into each other until they fell into the arrangement that still existed today. He understands it all, except for one thing.

He shouldn’t ask, he needs to go find Jon, but—he can’t help his curiosity. He’s much like Jon in that respect, he thinks. 

“Why help me?”

There’s nothing for a beat, then another, and the silence begins to stretch on so long that Martin thinks that the Eye isn’t going to answer at all.

Then, without warning—

 _Fear_ and _joy_ so intense that he can hardly stand it, and _sadness_ and _despondency_ and _despair_ and _boredom_ and _fondness,_ and all the subtle nuances of the human experience that he never cared to remember. And there’s _anger_ and _confusion_ and _fondness_ and—

_Love._

And oh, he knows the shape of these emotions. He’d felt the barest edges of them once before, when he’d reached for Jon and Gerry’s bond, because this is _Jon._ Somehow, impossibly, these are the full breadth of Jon’s emotions.

But no, there’s something subtly different about them. Something faintly clinical, faintly uncertain, something…

Inhuman.

“Oh,” Martin whispers, staring wide-eyed at the Beholding, at the human heart it has carried for so long that it’s somehow figured out how to _feel._ Which has come to love Martin the same way Jon’s heart had.

 **Go,** the Eye rumbles, and Martin doesn’t need to be told twice. He turns to the black door, still gaping wide behind him, and runs.

* * *

Martin stumbles out of the other side of the door, and is so disoriented that he doesn’t recognize where he is at first. It’s not until he hears the first explosion, gets the first whiff of smoke, that he realizes that he’s on the main street of Ilar. The Eye must have shifted the other end of the door.

 _Jon must be nearby,_ Martin thinks, and instinctively flips on his Sight and Looks.

It takes him a few moments of searching—and for a moment he thinks that he’s too late, that Jonah’s curse has eaten Jon—but then he Sees the faint bond stretching from his chest and into the distance. He doesn’t stop to process the implications of that, just takes off, following the bond to its source, to _Jon._

He runs and runs and runs, his breath rasping in his chest, dodging around the rubble of destroyed buildings, almost tripping over some disturbed cobblestone. _Jon, Jon, Jon,_ he thinks with every beat of his heart, hoping that he’s not too late. He can’t be too late, not now that he knows that Jon loves him, that he knows how to _save_ him.

He refuses to let despair, to let poor timing, be his legacy.

A scene fills his head as he goes—

_Gerry, soaring through the sky in his phoenix form, achingly free, achingly happy—_

He rounds a corner, but a nearby explosion sends him staggering to his knees. His ears are ringing, and the smoke fills his vision, causing his eyes to sting painfully.

_Jon sitting in the chair near the hearth, a book propped up on his lap, and he looks happy and content like he never has before—_

He forces himself to his feet and keeps going, keeps running, his burning gaze locked on the bond in front of him.

_Martin comes to Jon’s side and runs a gentle hand through his hair, and Jon smiles up at him, eyes softening._

He rounds another corner—

And there’s Jon, lying in the middle of the street. His beautiful grey moth wings are sprayed out on either side of him, ragged and crumpled on the hard cobblestone; neon green eyes blink open and shut all over his skin, so rapidly that it almost hurts to look at. His human eyes are hazy and distant, staring up into the sky without seeming to take anything in.

 _“Jon!”_ Martin screams.

Jon tenses a little, before rolling onto his stomach and pushing up onto his elbows. The movement looks like it hurts though, his limbs shaking like there’s an earthquake rattling his bones. Martin’s heart jolts, and he lurches into motion, shouting Jon’s name again, trying to will himself faster.

He crashes to the ground the second he reaches Jon’s side, a breathless, _“Jon,”_ escaping from his lips as he wraps his arms around the frail, fragile man. For a moment everything is okay—Jon is safe in Martin’s arms, and they can finally fix this, _together_ —but then Jon’s eyes go wide, and he begins to struggle, his breath coming in great, rasping heaves.

 _Shit,_ Martin thinks, tears welling up in his eyes at the thought of Jon being afraid of _him._ “Jon! Jon, it’s me. It’s me.”

Jon freezes, every muscle going taut with surprise—before he all but collapses into Martin, letting out a low, exhausted groan. He feels far, far too thin, too full of jagged edges, like he could break apart at any moment. “You can’t be here,” he wheezes, even as he clutches desperately at Martin’s arms. “It’s—it’s not _safe—”_

Martin shushes Jon’s ragged pleading, resisting the urge to haul him up into a proper hold, to press a comforting kiss to his brow. They’ll have time for that, for all of that, when they’re safe. Right now, he needs for Jon to _listen_ to him, because—

It was like Jon had shown him all those weeks ago, when Martin had first been learning how to See. Because the magic had been a part of him for as long as he’d been alive, regardless of whether or not he’d been cognizant of its presence. It had taken Jon’s magic coursing through his veins, intensifying the sensation, to make him aware of it in the first place.

Jon still has emotions, even if he’s not aware of them, even if he doesn’t _think_ he does. They’re just…somewhere else right now. But the Eye has proven that it’s willing to relinquish Jon’s heart, to let Jon call it back to him. The only thing that’s preventing Jon from doing so now is Jonah’s curse.

Martin only needs to intensify those distant emotions. If he can do that, then Jon’s magic should be able to break the bindings of the curse and call his heart back to him. Theoretically, at least. _God,_ he’s not an experienced magic user, after all; he’s sort of flying by the seat of his pants.

He wishes that Gerry was here.

“What do you feel for me?” Martin asks, looking deep into Jon’s eyes.

Jon stares at him blankly for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Martin still vividly remembers the day Jon had taught him how to See, the breathlessness he’d felt when Jon had said, _Even for just a moment, I’m asking you to trust me._ He briefly shuts his eyes, before opening them again and tightening his grip on Jon. “Jon, I am asking you to trust me.” _The same way you asked me to trust you._ “What do you feel for me?”

Jon studies him, his gaze honing in on Martin’s face, finally losing that strange, distant quality. Then he takes a deep, steadying breath, and closes his eyes.

A moment later he opens them again, his face twisting in frustration and bewildered despair. “I can’t…”

 _Yes, you can,_ Martin thinks. “That night in Tellorin, you looked at me and—what did you see? What did you see that made you look at me like that?”

Jon bites his lip. “You…”

“I helped you fix your hair. You smiled at me. I…” He hesitates here for just a moment, before shaking his head and soldiering onward. “...k-kissed you on the forehead, and you looked at me as though you’d never seen me before.”

Jon curls his hand in the front of Martin’s shirt, staring up at him as though they’re the only two people in the entire world. He stares, and stares, and Martin watches and waits, and _hopes—_

_There._

The bright green bond, the signifier of the Beholding’s curse, suddenly lights up, pulsing with a new brilliance. Martin reaches out, quick as a snake, catches it— _fondness love tinged with inhumanity, but there, always there, reach out and take it—_

He _yanks_ on the bond and floods it with his magic, his _love,_ intensifies it as much as he’s able. _Call it back to you,_ he thinks desperately. _I just showed you how. Call it home._

Jon lets out a quiet, shocked gasp and pushes upright, straining against some invisible force. Martin grips Jon’s hand to his face reassuringly, holding onto him through the panic, hoping that his presence will help Jon ride it out. “That’s it,” he whispers.

Whatever’s going on in Jon’s head, it doesn’t look pleasant. His eyes flicker back and forth beneath his closed eyelids, his lips moving soundlessly, his hand twisting in his shirt. The hand still pressed to Martin’s face curls, and he winces, doing his best to ignore the faint scratching of Jon’s fingernails.

But then—

Jon’s wings melt into his back. The eyes that’d been appearing all over his body dissolve, leaving nothing but clear, unblemished skin behind. And when Martin looks up, he can see an impossible light in the distance, growing brighter and brighter with each passing moment.

He shuts his eyes and holds on tight as Jon’s heart crashes toward them in a raucous symphony of light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and finally, in case you haven't seen it, i linked some art in the previous chapter. please check it out, the artists did and INCREDIBLE job!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: implied minor character death, bombing of a city, brief panic attack

Sasha sits on the couch, her head bowed over her legs, her hands hanging, twisted, between her knees. The mannequin sits beside her, his stiff hand resting in the middle of her back, his blank face staring into the middle distance.

After a moment, Sasha looks up and reaches for the radio sitting on the end table. Before her fingers can touch the knob however, the mannequin gently but firmly grips her shoulders and presses her arm back to her side.

_ “Tim,”  _ Sasha whispers, but it’s a weak, token complaint. She’s been turning the radio on and off, on and off for the past hour, desperate to know what’s going on in Ilar but terrified of every new piece of information she hears.

When she’d first heard about the bombing, she’d briskly walked to the door which connected Rollins to the castle. There had been no response, no matter how long or how hard she pounded on it, which—which could mean nothing. They could just be having an early night, or...or they could be in danger.

Regardless, she can’t do anything about it, as it takes about two days to get to Ilar from here. No, it’s better to have the radio off.

It’s just…

“I’m so  _ worried _ ,” she whispers, tightening her fingers around each other until her knuckles turn white. They could be fine, but  _ they could also not be.  _ She wouldn’t know, and she  _ doesn’t  _ know, and that uncertainty scares her more than anything else.

Tim may be in the shape of a mannequin, but he’s no less expressive now than when he was human. He squeezes her again and lays his head on her shoulder, and it’s still as reassuring as it ever was. She lets out a low, quiet sigh and closes her eyes, taking comfort in his quiet, steady presence.

After a moment there’s a gentle tug on one of her curls, and when she opens her eyes he shuffles back and makes a somewhat stilted but familiar gesture.

_ There’s no use worrying about it.  _ She doesn’t need to hear his voice to imagine him saying it.

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” she tells him sternly.

Tim’s head tilts pointedly to one side.  _ I know. Try. _

God, she misses his voice, his warmth, his confident smile. She even misses the stupid slit in his eyebrow that’d she’d mercilessly made fun of when he’d first gotten it (that she secretly thought looked good on him).

She forces a smile onto her face that she’s sure looks more like a grimace. “No promises, but I’ll try.”

He shakes his head, the white canvas of his body creaking softly with every movement. Then he leans back and drapes his arm over the top of the couch, awkwardly trying to fold one knee over the other. His stiff, inhuman joints don’t bend enough though, and after a few moments of fruitless struggling he gives up and just sinks back into the cushions. His face doesn’t change, but Sasha gets the distinct feeling that he’s scowling.

She reaches out and smoothes her thumb against his cheek, momentarily distracted from her worries about Ilar. The curse affecting Tim is just plain  _ mean.  _ It may be difficult, but conditional curses can usually be dispelled without actually fulfilling the condition, as their specificity makes them fragile. This one is complex though, twisted and tangled into shapes she can’t even begin to make sense of. It’s like whoever cast it not only cursed Tim, but the curse itself.

She can’t imagine how painful his situation must be, especially after he heard what happened to Danny. Yet there’s nothing she can do to  _ help. _

Tim’s neck creaks as he turns to look at her; whatever he sees, it causes him to reach out and carefully pat her shoulder.

They both almost leap out of their skin at a sudden, sharp rapping at the door. It shatters the quiet, and while normally she wouldn’t be concerned about visitors, the timing of this one—

After a brief, tense pause, Sasha gets to her feet and whispers, “Stay here.”

Tim rests his hands on his knees and nods shortly. Sasha carefully creeps over to the window and peers through, trying to be as discreet as possible as she looks.

“Sasha!” Melanie shouts, pounding on the door again. “It’s just me, you can stop looking through the window!”

“Oh!” Embarrassed, Sasha hurries over and opens the door for her friend, stepping aside to let Melanie in.

Melanie’s midnight black hair is swept into a short ponytail at the base of her neck, and her lips are a dark, cool shade of red. She’s wearing a white jacket, and pale yellow flowers have been stitched all over the back with a shimmering, beautiful thread. She hovers in the middle of Sasha’s living room, her cane brandished in front of her, tension hiking her shoulders up around her ears.

Then she steps to the couch and points to the seat that Sasha had just vacated. “Can I sit here?”

Sasha nods quickly. Tim, who’s been very still up until this point, shifts closer to the other end of the couch.

Melanie’s head snaps up at the minute rustling noise, and she frowns. “Is the mannequin here?”

Sasha nods, then remembers that Melanie can’t see her and says, “Yeah, he’s been living with me.”

“Huh.” Melanie turns and gives him a cordial nod. “Hello, again.”

Tim raises his hand to wave, then pauses and turns to Sasha. She can almost see the stricken look on his face.

“He waved,” Sasha relays dryly.

“Thanks.” Then Melanie shakes her head, her mouth twisting into an unhappy frown. “Anyway, I just—you haven’t heard anything from Jon tonight, have you? I tried knocking on the door, I wanted to ask if he’d check on Georgie for me, but I didn’t get a response, and it—it doesn’t feel magic anymore? So I’m worried, basically.”

Sasha feels her stomach drop. “No, I—I tried to get ahold of them as soon as I heard. What do you mean by, ‘it doesn’t feel magic anymore’?  _ What  _ doesn’t feel magic anymore?”

Melanie waves one hand, and it’s probably supposed to look dismissive, but the truth is betrayed in the nervous flutter of her fingers. “Jon’s—well no, I guess it’s Gerry’s, but, the door has always felt...alive, somehow? Like, maybe an extension of him of some kind? Even when the castle isn’t here, I can still feel its presence.”

She pauses, bites her lip. Tightens and loosens her grip around her cane, an uncharacteristic show of uncertainty, especially for a person who’s always seemed so confident in herself. Then she adds, “Or, well, I  _ could  _ feel its presence. But it’s gone now.” 

Sasha had been afraid of that. She glances at Tim, who shrugs helplessly, and then turns away and closes her eyes. _Think, come on. How do we figure out what’s wrong? How do we help them if they need it?_

Tim is counting on her, looking to her for guidance, and so is Melanie, and her useless brain is completely, utterly blank. She doesn’t even know if they’re in danger, or if the danger they’re in is related to the bombing of Ilar.

“Sasha,” Melanie calls. “Hey, Sasha.”

“Hm?” Sasha looks over her shoulder, frowning at the worry on Melanie’s face.

“That’s the third time I’ve called your name.”

Sasha winces. “Sorry.”

Melanie shakes her head. “You know, it’s...it’s okay if you don’t know what to do? Trust me, I know that it sucks, but sometimes the only thing you can do is wait.”

Out of the corner of one eye, she sees Tim lift his hands upward; she can almost hear his  _ see? I told you so,  _ because he is and always has been a smartass.

_ Waiting.  _ She hates waiting more than anything else in the world. When she was fourteen, she’d waited for weeks for a response from the Strangia Royal Academy, knowing it would change her life if she was accepted, not sure what she’d do if she wasn’t. Right after the accident, she’d waited in a chair outside of Danny’s room for hours, praying that he’d wake up again, hoping that he’d be able to tell them what happened. Every second that she’d spent looking for Tim had felt as though it had stretched into eons.

She’s so sick of waiting. But there’s nothing else she can do, and the thought is as cruel as it is honest.

So she takes a deep breath, calming breath. Pushes her curls away from her forehead, frowning when her fingers get caught in the strands. Finally turns to the others and says, as steadily as she can manage, “You’re...you’re both right. Melanie, you’re welcome to wait here with us as long as you like.”

“I appreciate it,” she says, relief hiding just below her flippant tone, betraying how much she must have wanted a little company.

They’re quiet for the next ten minutes or so, the silence broken only by the quiet burble of water boiling, and the  _ clink  _ of ceramic as Sasha makes herself and Melanie a cup of tea. To Tim she gives a mug of water just shy of boiling—he may not be able to drink it anymore, but he likes the feeling of being included.

She sits on the couch, staring at the sliver of light that pours through the slit between the curtains. She’s trying very hard not to feel like she’s back in the royal medical wing in the Strangia capital, her hands crusty with a layer of Danny’s dried blood, Tim’s absence a heavy weight on her shoulders.

She can only hope that Jon and the others are okay.

* * *

_ Once upon a time, in a land called Strangia, there lived two princes. _

_ Tim, the crown prince and the elder of the two, was everything a prince should be; tall, handsome, his demeanor easy going and charming. Despite his laidback nature, he applied himself to his duties with rigor and determination. He could often be seen walking through the capital city, conversing with  _ this  _ advisor or  _ that  _ merchant. _

_ The younger of the two brothers, Danny, was as handsome and charming as Tim. Yet, he had been born with wanderlust in his veins, and was far more curious about the world beyond their borders. He flitted from interest to interest like a butterfly, taking in everything around him with bright eyes wide open, always eager for a new experience, a new adventure. _

_ While Strangia loved them both, Danny was its darling. Danny had friends in every corner of the kingdom; he was always going on some new adventure, slaying some new dragon. A lesser man might’ve envied Danny, but Tim was no lesser man; it was not in his nature to be jealous. And for his part, Danny felt no grudge toward Tim for being born first, and was n fact relieved about the current arrangement. He didn’t want to be  _ king;  _ the position looked and sounded dreadfully boring. _

_ Whenever Danny left the castle, Tim waved him goodbye with a smile. When Danny returned, there Tim would be, ready with a listening ear and a med kit. This was the way the two brothers were. _

_ When Tim was twenty-two and Danny was eighteen, Tim made the decision to appoint Danny as diplomat in his future court. It was a sensible choice, which Danny was delighted to accept; after all, diplomats were well-travelled and experienced the most exciting of things. The king and queen supported the decision (and were quietly relieved that they would never have to worry about the brothers disputing the line of succession). _

_ But Danny, ever the opportunist, asked if Tim would celebrate the appointment with him. Tim protested, but Danny complained that  _ they hardly ever did anything together because Tim was so busy all the time _ , and  _ they’d never gone on an adventure before _ , and  _ it didn’t have to be anything big or extravagant or anything, please?  _ and the argument was practically lost before it’d even begun. _

_ So, Tim and Danny went on a small, discreet skiing trip in the mountains to celebrate. And at first, it was fine; they carved lines down the mountains, threw snow at each other, laughed like they hadn’t in years. Despite his initial misgivings, Tim found himself happy that he’d agreed to come. _

_ Of course, that is when it all went wrong. _

_ Here is what Danny and Tim had failed to take into account: the mountains on the Northern border of Strangia were very close to the Wastes in Ingary, which were rumored to be home to some of the most notorious magic-users on the continent. Their chosen skiing spot was particularly close to the home of the witch Nikola, who was cruel and sadistic and did not take kindly to two young brats causing a racket on her mountain. More than that, however, she saw an opportunity to stir up trouble, for no reason other than that she was bored. _

_ Danny didn’t remember exactly what happened; one second he’d been skiing down the mountain, Tim a bright blur in the distance, and the next he was waking up in the royal clinic, a cluster of doctors hovering overhead. But more than that, more than his new condition, was the fact that Tim had vanished into thin air, and his mother and father believed Ingary to be responsible. They were so certain of this that they were willing to go to war over it. _

_ Danny was not quite so sure, however. While he did not remember the incident, something about it didn’t quite ring true. His parents refused to listen to him, however, just gently shushed him and told him to get some more rest. _

_ In Tim’s absence, Danny had become the acting crown prince, and was unable to leave the capital to follow up on his suspicions. So, he turned to Sasha James. _ __

_ Sasha was a talented magical practitioner, and had been Tim’s closest friend since they were very young. She was practically guaranteed the position of royal magical advisor when Tim inherited the throne. Normally she accompanied him on all of his outings, but Tim had asked her to look after his affairs while he went skiing, so she had remained in the capital. _

_ She had been horrified when she’d heard the news, and angry with herself for not insisting on coming along, and frightened for Tim. And then those who’d been tasked with guarding the pass had reported seeing members of the Ingarian military in the area—or maybe the Ingarian magical forces? Either way, Sasha watched in silence as the grieving king and queen turned their fury toward Ingary. _

_ She’d been prepared to do the same until Danny had come to her, asking her to discreetly follow up with the guards who’d given the initial reports. The guards’ memories and stories had seemed sound, but when she’d used her Sight on them, she’d seen the touch of the Stranger on their skin. She’d only just barely managed to kill the mannequin imposters before they killed her. _

_ Afterward, she discovered that a curse had been laid on the King and Queen of Strangia: their minds were twisted, swayed into believing that Ingary was responsible for Tim’s disappearance. They would only believe otherwise if they had Tim in front of them, denying Ingary’s involvement. _

_ It was then that she made a decision. _

_ Sasha didn’t know whether or not Ingary was responsible for Tim’s disappearance, but she  _ did  _ know that there was malicious magic involved. She didn’t have proof though, and there was no way to stop the war without Tim. _

_ So she sent a letter to Danny, explaining that she had found a lead on Tim, and was going to track it to its source. And then she vanished into the snow-covered mountains, searching for a magical practitioner capable of turning mannequins into people, who had the desire to throw a country into tumult. _

_ She didn’t find Nikola, the true culprit, who perched at the top of her mountain like a gargoyle overlooking a city and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. _

_ Instead, she found Jon. _

* * *

Martin hauls Jon to his feet, pressing the smaller man close to his side, trying to ignore the burning ache of the blisters forming in his hands. Jon’s making these tiny, distressed hiccuping noises, his grip on Martin’s arm bruisingly tight as he tries and fails to get his feet under him.

“It’s okay,” Martin mutters, throwing Jon’s arm over his shoulders, trying to prop him upright just long enough to get away from the epicenter of the bombings. Jon gasps, the sound too loud in Martin’s ear. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, come on.”

“It’s too much,” Jon whispers, his free hand creeping up to his chest, twisting in the fabric above his heart. “I can’t—Martin, I can’t, it’s too much, it’s too  _ much—” _

“Oh,  _ sweetheart,”  _ Martin whispers in sympathy, then almost freezes when he realizes what he’s just said. He flushes—but no, he can say that now, can’t he? He’ll have to ask Jon how he feels about pet names later, but there’s no danger of his feelings being unearthed. It’s already out there in the open, and the thought is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

Later. This is a thought, a conversation, to ponder some other time, when they’re not in danger of getting killed.

A building less than a block behind them suddenly goes up in a plume of smoke and debris, accompanied by the high-pitched whine of an airplane roaring overhead. Martin staggers, caught off guard, but Jon lets out an incoherent cry and sinks to his knees, wrapping a hand around his throat. Martin curses and kneels in front of him, his heart sinking when he sees the glazed panic in Jon’s eyes, the way his breath is coming too hard, too fast.

“It’s okay,” Martin tells him, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. He smooths his fingers through Jon’s hair, trying not to marvel at the fact that he can do this now, because  _ this is really not the time. _ “Jon, it’s okay, but we need to go.”

Jon’s gaze flickers for a moment, focuses on him—and then, a tear slips down his face, then another, and he’s dissolving into messy, uncontrollable sobs. He curls into himself, rocking back and forth, covered in a thick layer of dust and detritus. He looks far too small, far too vulnerable, like he’s one wrong move from crumbling into dust.

_ Holy fuck,  _ Martin thinks, mind going blank. He’s never seen Jon like this before, bouncing from one extreme to the next, unable to maintain any semblance of control. But—it makes sense, doesn’t it? Jon’s been operating without a functioning heart for the past five years, and he’s just been thrown into a highly stressful, highly volatile situation. No wonder he’s having such a hard time.

Okay.  _ Okay.  _ He can get them out of this.

“Jon, I’m going to pick you up, okay?” Martin tucks Jon’s hair behind his ears, uncertain if he’s actually hearing anything. “I’m going to get you away from here. Is that okay?”

For a moment Jon doesn’t respond, and Martin lets out a low, quiet sigh and prepares to try again. He pauses when Jon peers up through his fingers with wide, watery brown eyes and slowly, wordlessly nods.

Okay.

Martin nods shortly back, then kneels and carefully gathers Jon into his arms, pressing him securely against his chest. One of Jon’s hands is still pressed over his newly beating heart, but the other curls over Martin’s shoulder, drawing them tightly together. He closes his eyes and turns his face into Martin’s shoulder, breathing shakily through whatever storm has made its home in his mind.

Martin’s lived in Ilar most of his life; he knows all the secret alleyways, all the little nooks and crannies. But right now, with the city shrouded in darkness and many of the landmarks blasted to rubble, he keeps having to pause and regain his bearings. Not only that, but the airplanes are still buzzing overhead, and sometimes he has to duck under the awning of a building or pause in the mouth of an alleyway until they pass.

Jon keeps his eyes closed and his face turned into Martin’s chest, his jaw fairly snapping with tension, flinching hard whenever a bomb goes off nearby. His breathing is evening out though, and Martin hopes that means that he’s settling down.

After almost five minutes, Jon finally opens his eyes, releases his vice-like grip on Martin’s shoulder, and rasps, “Stop.”

Martin stops, frowning. “Jon?”

“I’m okay,” Jon tells him, looking somewhere down and away, lips pressed into a tight, embarrassed line. “You can put me down now.”

“Okay!” He’s secretly a little relieved. Jon’s not that heavy, but Martin’s arms were starting to get tired.

After a couple of seconds of awkward fumbling, Jon’s standing on the cobblestones under his own power, albeit a little unsteadily. There’s something visibly different about him, something Martin can’t quite place his finger on. As he’s done with so many other things tonight, he files the observation away for later.

“I’m sorry,” Jon tells him, his voice so quiet it may as well be a whisper. “I didn’t think it would hit me that hard.”

“It’s fine.” Martin’s not about to blame him for something he obviously had no control over. “We have to hurry, though. Gerry’s…”

Oh, fuck.  _ Gerry. _

“I left him,” Martin realizes, horrified. “He’s—he’s bleeding out in the castle, oh god, Jon, Daisy—”

Jon puts a quelling hand on his shoulder, and when Martin looks over, he almost has a heart attack at the sheer, simple happiness on Jon’s face. “He’s okay, Martin. He’s coming to meet us.”

Martin gapes, his mind gibbering several things at once— _ Gerry’s okay? I’ve never seen you smile like this? He’s coming to meet us?  _ It’s a little too much to process, so he settles on an intelligent, “Huh?”

Jon’s smile widens. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, but Gerry’s a phoenix, and—and he’s  _ free _ . He’s finally…” another tear trickles down Jon’s sooty face, and he lets out a groan and roughly scrubs it away. “Sorry,  _ sorry,  _ it’s—it’s still a lot. I’m trying to—to control it as best I can, but...”

“Don’t apologize!” Martin shakes his head, unable to stop himself from tucking Jon’s bangs behind his ears, from gently cupping the side of his face. “My god, Jon, you haven’t had a heart for five years. It’s no wonder you’re like this.”

Jon just looks at him for a second, his eyes quietly thoughtful, lips pressed tightly together. Once again, Martin is struck by the fact that he looks...different somehow, even just standing here, perfectly still. An electricity to his skin maybe, a grace that wasn’t there before. An aura of  _ something  _ that’s so transparent as to almost be invisible.

Then he smiles, reaches up, and gently brushes his thumb across Martin’s cheekbone. “I love you.”

Martin’s mind whites out, and he finds himself gaping dumbly at Jon for the second time that night.

“We should go,” Jon says and starts to walk away, unconcerned by the admission, by how casually he wields his affection.

“Okay!” Martin squeaks, hoping that he isn’t blushing  _ too  _ hard, knowing that he probably looks like a ripe tomato. He really wants to know if Jon is going to be like this  _ all  _ the time, or if it’s only because he’s just gotten his heart back. He’s not sure how he’ll survive if it’s the former.

As they near the outer edges of the city, Jon suddenly pauses and grabs Martin’s wrist, halting him in place. He points toward the Wastes, far in the distance, a note of wonder in his voice as he says, “Look.”

Martin frowns, squinting into the unbroken darkness. “I don’t…”

And then he sees it; a bright glow of dancing white light near the top of the mountain, like someone’s lit a bonfire. As he watches, the light flickers, then starts to grow bigger, brighter, arcing toward them like a shooting star falling in orbit. It’s not just white; the more he looks, the more colors he can see. Spurts of bright turquoise, flares of orange, tongues of pinkish-purple that fade almost as soon as they form.

The ball of flaming iridescence gains definition, and he can see two wings stretched wide, tail feathers that trail sparks almost too bright to look directly at.  _ Gerry,  _ he realizes, his mouth dropping wide open.

Jon lets go of his wrist, and when Martin looks down he’s sprinting in the direction of the Wastes as fast as his skinny legs can carry him. Martin lets out a quiet curse and runs after, valiantly ignoring the exhaustion he can feel all the way down to his bones. What he wouldn’t give for a hot bath, a cup of tea, and somewhere to put his feet up for  _ five minutes. _

Within a couple of seconds, they’re free of the sprawling arms of the city and into the farmlands just outside. Rolling fields of corn, wheat, and other crops extend as far as the eye can see, all the way to the mountains, and the smell of freshly tilled earth and farm animals is thick in the air. Martin’s only got eyes for Jon though, still several meters ahead.

Gerry, an  _ enormous fucking phoenix, _ lands a short distance away, his wingspan easily eclipsing the width of the road. He lowers himself to one side, and Daisy slides from his back, collapsing in a heap in the dirt. Then he takes a step forward, then another, wings blackening, body shrinking into a familiar shape—

By the time Jon reaches him, Gerry is fully human again. They crash together, and Gerry lifts Jon right off of his feet, spinning him in clumsy circles. Martin slows as he approaches, hand on his pounding heart, some big, indescribable emotion rising in his throat at the sound of Gerry’s relieved laughter (and some short bursts of birdlike trilling?), of Jon babbling incoherently.

Gerry sets Jon down and immediately grabs one of his wrists, and it takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s searching for a pulse point. Jon submits to the manhandling easily, patiently, smiling a big, uncontrollable smile, his cheeks smeared with a mixture of tears and ash. He must catch sight of Martin out of the corner of his eye, because after a moment he looks over, and his grin turns conspiratorial, like they’re sharing a private joke.

After a moment, Gerry shakes his head and gathers Jon into his arms again, pressing a firm kiss to his temple. Martin looks away, shivering at the growing chill, almost overcome with the urge to sit down and hide his face in his knees. He suddenly understands Jon bursting into helpless tears in the middle of the street. Tonight has been a roller coaster of terror, anger, more terror, followed by overwhelming relief, then fear again.

“Martin!” Gerry calls, and that’s all the warning Martin gets before he’s being folded into a hug.

He freezes for a moment, expecting to start burning at any moment, for his skin to blacken and char, but…

It’s just warm.

It’s warm the way sinking into a hot bath is warm, the way holding a steaming mug of tea in your hands is warm. Something in his chest loosens, relaxes for the first time that night, and he goes boneless, burying his face against Gerry’s shoulder, legs shaking with the effort it takes to remain upright.

“There we go,” Gerry whispers, low and fond.

“I was so scared,” Martin finally admits, gasping for breath, eyes burning. “You—you were dying, and Jon was, and I—I was so  _ scared—” _

“You did so good,” Gerry tells him firmly. “You saved us, Martin. It’s okay.”

Those words, that reassurance, is what finally does him in. Tears streak down his face, and he muffles his whimpers against Gerry’s trench coat, too overwhelmed with sheer relief to even attempt to quell his crying.

He did it. They’re both okay. More than that, they’re  _ free. _

After a few minutes he pulls away, embarrassed, scrubbing at the layer of soot and tears on his cheeks. He probably looks a _ mess.  _ “Sorry,” he sniffles sheepishly. “Tonight has been...it’s been a lot.”

“Sorry,” Jon murmurs, voice small and cowed. “I know I probably didn’t help.”

He turns and shoots Jon as stern a look as he can after just having cried his eyes out. “Don’t you apologize! You just got your heart back!”

“And don’t  _ you  _ apologize either,” Gerry says, eyes warm, giving Martin’s arm a tight, chastising squeeze. “You just did the impossible. I think you’re warranted a good cry. Oh, and…”

Gerry takes Martin’s hands in his and closes his eyes, brow furrowing in concentration. Martin stares at him, confused, before realizing that the ache from the blisters on his hands, the ones he’d gotten earlier that night, are fading. A couple of seconds later the pain is gone entirely, leaving only gentle warmth behind.

Gerry releases him, and Martin lifts his hands, staring wonderingly at the clear skin. “Wow,” he whispers, amazed.

“Are you done?”

They all startle and look over at Daisy, who’s standing on the edge of the road, her arms folded over her chest. She’s wearing a look that falls somewhere between impatience, exasperation, and exhaustion. She doesn’t look cursed anymore though, so Martin assumes that Gerry fixed it...somehow.

Jon glances uncertainly from Gerry, to Martin, to Daisy again. “Um—” 

“Good,” Daisy growls gruffly, and takes a few steps forward. Martin’s retreating before he can even think it all the way through, and she pauses, sending him an unreadable look, before settling in place. “Sims, you didn’t tell me your fireplace was a bloody fucking  _ phoenix.” _

“Didn’t seem like any of your business,” Jon says, though it sounds more confused than anything. “What are you doing here, exactly?”

Oh, right. Jon doesn’t know about the attack.

“Elias is fond of his curses,” Daisy growls, expression going dark, eyes flickering with barely controlled anger. “I don’t know when it happened exactly, but he must have cursed me with some sort of—of mind control thing. One second I was in the capital, walking home with Basira, the next I was waking up with my hand buried in  _ his _ chest.”

Jon reaches out and catches Gerry’s wrist, eyes going wide and horrified at the thought. Without looking, Gerry wiggles around in Jon’s grip until they’re holding hands, and he squeezes reassuringly.

“Oh, Martin.” Gerry turns to him, eyebrows raised. “Speaking of, how the hell did you break the curse?”

“Oh!” Martin shakes his head. It feels a little silly to say out loud. “Well—okay, so, apparently the Eye has had Jon’s heart for so long that it...figured out how to feel, basically? Apparently it wanted to break Jon’s curse as much as he did. Jon just had to...to call for his heart, and the Eye’s power was able to sever the curse? It’s hard to explain.”

(He decides to omit the part about the Eye being fond of him specifically. He’s still coming to terms with that one.)

Gerry shakes his head, bemused. “I—yeah, okay. You know, whatever works.”

Jon reaches out and touches Martin’s wrist, looking a bit uncertain around the edges, as though unsure of his welcome. “Would you mind going over it with me later at length? This is—I’ve never—it’s…”

“Of course,” Martin says fondly, shaking his head. He should’ve known that Jon, ever hungry for new information, would want to hear the full details of the breaking of his own curse.

“Are they coming with us?” Daisy asks impatiently, bringing the conversation back to the present with a hard  _ thump. _

Martin and Jon share a confused sideways look.

“Coming with you  _ where?”  _ Jon asks.

“To kill Jonah,” Gerry says lightly.

Martin stares at him for a moment, sure that he heard that wrong, because— _ what? _ In a voice that sounds faint to even his own ears, he asks, “Excuse me—to  _ what?” _

“Jonah planned to take Jon once and for all tonight,” Gerry says, shaking his head. “But his plan _failed._ More than that, the curse is broken. We have the element of surprise, and we should use it before he has a chance to regroup.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks in a pained voice, feeling completely out of his depth.

“No, Gerry’s right,” Jon says, his eyes gleaming in the lowlight. “We’re never going to get another opportunity like this one.”

Martin wants to search for the words to argue, but deep down, he knows that they’re right. Jonah was only ever as threatening as he was because he knew his opponents well enough to plan several steps ahead. He would have succeeded tonight if Martin hadn’t done what was supposed to be impossible.

So yes, now would be the time to defeat Jonah once and for all. Except—

“I don’t think that Jon should go,” Martin cuts in, shooting Jon an apologetic look.

“Agreed,” Gerry adds without hesitation.

“What?” Jon squawks, scandalized and betrayed in equal measure.

“Jon, I can feel how...how  _ intense  _ everything is to you right now. I know how much the idea of fighting Jonah terrifies you,” Gerry tells him. “Daisy and I can handle it. She thinks we can get her partner to help us as well, so we'll have some backup.”

“But—” Jon looks at the three of them, his will dying a swift death in the face of their unwavering conviction. He resolutely draws himself up for one last protest, lips pressed into a tight, determined line. “I can’t just let you fight my battles for me.”

“Jon,” Gerry gusts, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been fighting battles for me practically since we  _ met.  _ I’m not some—some helpless child anymore.”

“Yeah,” Daisy adds, dry as anything. “He’ll be fine. He’s an _ enormous fucking phoenix _ .”

The corner of Gerry’s mouth quirks up at her words. Then he shakes his head, a gleam of something tired and angry entering his gaze. “And besides, Jon, this isn’t just for  _ you.  _ I’ve got a bone to pick with Jonah as well. _ ” _

“ _ And  _ he cursed me,” Daisy mutters. “Bastard.”

Jon is giving Gerry a tight, unhappy look, one that means that he’s still not satisfied with the situation, that he’d argue if he thought it would change anything. Martin isn’t sure why he’s being so resistant, but it’s probably something to do with the fact that he feels responsible. Not just for defeating Jonah, but for protecting Gerry as well.

Gerry grew, as all things do, but the Eye had shown Martin that Jon had never forgotten about the baby bird who’d almost died in the storm when they first met, about the little boy who burst into wild, messy tears upon skinning his knees. In many ways, Gerry sacrificing his freedom for Jon had felt like failing him, and that failure cut anew every day for almost five years.

He can understand the sentiment, of course—Gerry had warned Jon about Jonah, and Jon’s stubbornness had resulted in them both being cursed. Martin would be  _ very  _ surprised if Gerry hadn’t been at least a little angry about that. Knowing Jon, he would’ve taken that anger to heart, combined it with his own shame and guilt, and turned it inward.

The idea of Gerry going off to fight Jonah alone probably feels like yet another catastrophic failure, yet another way that Jon has let his closest friend down. If Martin were capable of assuaging his worries without exposing the fact that he was privy to some of Jon’s most personal thoughts, he would.

(He wants to tell Jon of course—it’s not something that he would think of hiding—but this really isn’t the time, not when they haven’t even had the relationship conversation yet.)

Martin reaches out and gently takes Jon’s hand in his, smoothing his thumb over those roughened knuckles. Smiles reassuringly when Jon turns his wide-eyed, unhappy gaze on him. “Jon,” he says, searching the words to make this better. “Jonah’s not your responsibility. He’s not your problem to fix just because you trusted him and he cursed you, or whatever. He hurt you, and that’s more than enough reason to never see him again.”

Jon bites his lip, but he looks less defiant and more thoughtful, like he’s finally taking their words into consideration. Daisy’s beginning to fidget, looking around impatiently, but Gerry seems unconcerned, like he has all the time in the world.

Martin knows that they’ve won him over even before he speaks; his shoulders deflate, all the fight leaving him in one low, relenting sigh. He shifts his weight closer to Martin, presses their arms together, and nods. “Alright. But Gerry, if you’re going to do this alone, I’m giving you my magic. I want you to have every advantage against him.”

Martin shoots Jon a startled look. “I’m sorry—give him  _ what?” _

Jon shrugs one shoulder and casually loops his arm through Martin’s elbow, tucking against his side. “Our bond means that we can share magic with each other. It’s not  _ forever.  _ My magic will regenerate in time.”

“Oh,” Martin says, mollified. Then he notices how close Jon had gotten while he wasn’t paying attention, and feels his cheeks flush.

“You two figured it out, then?” Gerry asks, and though his tone is light, there’s a wide, teasing grin on his face.

“In a sense,” Jon responds loftily, tipping his chin upward, as though daring Gerry to make fun.

“Oh,  _ congratulations,”  _ Daisy interrupts, rolling her eyes. “You finally figured out that you were madly in love with each other. Can we  _ go?” _

“Give me a second,” Gerry snaps back. “I’ve been watching this unfold for  _ months  _ now, at least let me savor it.”

_ “Months?”  _ Martin squeaks, finally finding his voice.

“It’s not like you were subtle,” Gerry huffs, a touch petulant. “Alright, yes, let’s go.”

The transformation from human to phoenix happens quickly—but even if it hadn’t, Martin’s pretty sure that he wouldn’t have been able to make sense of what he was seeing. Black clothes bleed into flaming feathers, limbs stretch and grow and morph sickeningly, twisting and breaking and finally resolving into the towering, brilliant phoenix that they’d seen earlier.

Martin freezes—he  _ knows  _ that’s Gerry, that’s his friend, but that’s also a flaming mythical creature with a wickedly sharp beak and cruel, hooked talons—

Jon steps away from Martin’s side, approaching Gerry without hesitation or fear. The phoenix lowers his head to meet him, the line of his neck dipping into a long, graceful arch. Jon reaches up, buries his hands into the feathers along Gerry’s neck, and momentarily presses their foreheads together.

“Be careful,” Jon whispers, and his magic rises around him, so thick that it can be seen with the naked eye.

“I’ll be back soon,” Gerry promises, and flares his wings wide, his flames roaring to life. The air is boiling, rippling with heat, but all Martin feels is a light, tickling warmth against his skin.

Then, Gerry turns to face Martin. His skull is massive, almost comically so, but—

_ Oh.  _ He’s not sure why he was so scared. He knows those eyes. 

“Take care of him for me,” Gerry rumbles. “I know it’s impossible to keep him out of trouble, but—”

“Hey!”

“I’ll do my best,” Martin promises, hesitantly reaching up and resting his hand on the side of Gerry’s beak. It’s smooth and almost too-warm, and after a couple of seconds Gerry huffs a breath that feels like a hot wind from a bellow.

Then he pulls away, and the chill he leaves behind is made all the more cold for his absence. Martin shivers and wraps his arms around himself, almost jumping in surprise when Jon presses against his side again. When he glances over, he can see that Jon’s feeling the cold just as much as he is.

Gerry takes one more second to lower himself so that Daisy can scramble on, and then he spreads his wings into one long, graceful line against the night sky. He flaps once, twice, and the wake is so strong that it creates a buffeting gale that has Jon and Martin clinging to each other. Flame boils down his wings, curling and frothing in the strong wind, and then he flaps once more, his body coiling tight like a spring—

With an echoing shriek, he’s spiraling into the air, the ground where he’d been standing black with char, his tail trailing tongues of iridescent fire. Jon and Martin stand there, holding onto each other, watching the light fade to a pinprick, like a star in the night sky winking out.

* * *

The Eye sits, and waits.

It is good at that; at slow, patient stillness. It Knows its own grasping understanding intimately; it is that which draws the world’s knowledge to itself in a slow, inevitable march. It will never be satisfied, but it can be contented for a moment or two, here or there, devouring bit by tedious bit.

It never used to worry about such petty things as consequences before. But then it greedily consumed a heart, and its uncaring objectivity was weighed down by  _ shame,  _ by  _ regret,  _ by  _ accountability  _ and  _ morality.  _ And suddenly actions it had once puzzled over, tales that frustrated it with opaque motivations and obscure justifications, made so much more  _ sense.  _ Here was  _ mindless fury,  _ and there was  _ fear _ , but driven by selflessness rather than selfishness.

_ (And here was love; and here was love; and here was love.) _

It could choose to forget. It even Knows how to do so. But forgetting would mean losing an intrinsic understanding of all the little pieces that make up the natural world, an understanding it would never have achieved on its own.

Cold, apathetic objectivity in exchange for knowledge filtered through the lens of human emotion. Information that is traded at a cruelly expensive price, in exchange for realizing the irreplaceable value of one human life. It’s a harsh bargain, but one the Eye wearily accepts.

It is familiar with the concept of knowledge at any cost.

However in gaining this terrible, human understanding, it has lost the ability to comprehend Jonah Magnus. Oh, it could never Know the base fear of mortality—it cannot die, after all—but it can understand the shape of his cruelty. It can see the families he left broken, the consequences that were passed to those who didn’t deserve it. The man leaves a long, terrible suffering in his wake, and it is—it is…

It doesn’t have the words to describe how that makes it feel. Somewhere left of angry, somewhere south of sad. It is eager to figure it out, though, to start to add the sum of all human emotion into something coherent and describable.

Regardless, the Eye sits, and it waits.

It Watches as the phoenix wings in from the south, the ex-guard on its back, purpose and determination and little bit of extra magic driving them onward. The citizens of the capital all crowd around their windows and whisper excitedly to each other— _ phoenixes are rare, and so they are  _ scared,  _ and also  _ awed—as the party enters the city. They go unopposed as they find the ex-guard’s ally and make their way toward the palace, because Elias had instructed the palace guards to get out of the way if they wanted to live.

Elias Bouchard, who was once James Wright, who was once Jonah Magnus, stands in the basement of the palace, where he is most powerful, face calm and resolute. The Eye Knows that his mind is racing though, is wondering where Jon found a phoenix,  _ when  _ Jon found a phoenix, and if he can use this to his advantage somehow—

(The Eye has not forgotten how easy it was for Jon to love Gerry. It sits on its fury, and waits.)

The phoenix and the two ex-guards make their way down. Jonah had tried to set traps to stop them, but they have no effect against a magical creature brimming with borrowed power. The last magic circle at the base of the stairs dies an ignoble death underneath the phoenix’s feet, and then they are  _ here. _

The phoenix doesn’t waste words trying to reason with Jonah—he knows how futile his efforts would be—and instead immediately goes on the offensive. He rises into the air, his and Jon’s magic rising with him, setting the environment on fire while the two ex-guards follow behind him, grimly determined.

_ (Gerry remembers the last time he was here, the feeling of helplessness and anger as he’d rescued Jon from Elias’ grasp—) _

One of the ex-guards is touched by the Hunt, and her magic turns her claws to sharp points, turns her eyes to focused slits. The other one is no magic user, but she  _ is  _ a good shot, and the sharp bark of her gun echoes in the resonant expanse.

_ (Basira’s never had a head for magic, not the way Daisy has. It’s too intuitive for her logical, analytical brain, and the dissonance is impossible to make sense of. But she doesn’t need it; windspeeds and angles and trajectories are all concrete math—) _

Jonah may have been able to defeat the ex-guards on his own. He may have even been able to defeat the phoenix on his own—

_ (This would not be the first time Jonah fed the Eye a phoenix, or even a Keay. Mary Keay had been an inquisitive, arrogant thing, who thought herself above the laws that bound the rest of the natural world. She destroyed herself in her quest to ascend to godhood, and then the Eye consumed her remains.) _

—but together they’re angry and driven and overwhelmingly strong, too much for an almost-immortal magic-user. Every counterattack is driven back, every thread of curse cut before it can fully form. And just as the Eye had Known he eventually would, Jonah calls to it for more power, begging for aid against those that would bring them down.

The Eye has thought long and hard about this moment.

In gaining a heart, it came to understand the suffering it was complicit in. Maybe it wasn’t directly responsible, but Jonah couldn’t have caused the damage he did without the assistance of something far more powerful than he. The Eye had demanded  _ knowledge at any cost,  _ and Jonah had complied by foisting the expenses on those who only had their lives to give.

Jon’s heart was a thing filled to the brim with  _ regret,  _ with the need to  _ atone,  _ but his transgressions were so terribly small when compared to the damage the Eye was inadvertently responsible for. What does that mean for the Eye, then? How does one atone for a seemingly irredeemable action?

(The Eye is eager to find out.)

But while the Eye was complicit in untold quantities of suffering, Jonah Magnus was _directly_ _responsible._ And the Eye thinks that the best and most poignant way to start on its path to redemption is to destroy the monster that it created.

Jonah calls out to the Eye, asking for its aid.

The Eye responds by flooding Jonah’s mind with the sum of all of the suffering he caused.

The fight doesn’t last much longer than that.

…

…

...

_ Coda _

At almost two in the morning, Sasha’s awoken by a loud, rapid tapping on her front door.

She lets out a wide, jaw cracking yawn and pushes upright, rubbing residual sleep from her eyes. Tim is still sitting in the chair he’d settled down in earlier that night, though she has no idea if he was sleeping, if he even  _ can  _ sleep. Regardless he’s awake now, head tilted curiously toward the door.

“Whazzat?” She hears Melanie mumble from her makeshift nest on the carpet.

“One second,” Sasha mutters, getting up and stumbling unsteadily to the front door. She yawns again before peering through the peephole—

And pausing.

“Hm,” she says, and shoves the door open.

Jon, Gerry, and Martin are standing on her front step. Martin and Jon are an awful mess; their hair is covered in a fine layer of dust, and they’ve both amassed a sizable number of scrapes. Gerry looks absolutely pristine...and very much not trapped in the fire.

Her mind trips over that one a couple of times, before she stops trying to comprehend it and sets it aside for later.

“Hi Sasha,” Jon rasps, then hesitates, looking uncertain as how to proceed from there.

“Hi Jon,” Sasha says back, feeling very numb and not at all awake enough for this.

They stare at each other for a moment. Or well, Jon stares at her, and she alternates between staring at Jon (covered in dust, fidgeting suspiciously), Gerry (hands jammed deep in his pockets, deeply unconcerned) and Martin (also covered in dust, wavering sleepily on his feet).

“Why don’t you come inside,” Sasha says finally, “I’ll set up somewhere to sleep, and we can talk about this in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Jon responds sheepishly, and then they all shuffle inside.

…

“So let me get this straight,” Sasha says several hours later, once she’s had her second cup of coffee and is feeling much more capable of handling whatever bullshit they’ve gotten caught up in. She jabs her spoon Martin’s way.  _ “You  _ managed to break Jon and Gerry’s curse through the—the power of love, or whatever—”

“I don’t know if I’d go  _ that  _ far,” Martin mutters, but his discomfort quickly fades when Jon reaches over and squeezes his wrist.

Sasha shakes her head and jabs her spoon at Gerry. “And then  _ you  _ decided that it would be a great time to kill Elias, and then  _ did so.  _ On your own. Without any prior planning.”

Gerry looks deeply affronted by the accusation. “We didn’t have time to plan. We had an opportunity that we couldn’t afford to waste—”

“I think that about sums it up, actually,” Melanie interjects gleefully. She got over her shock pretty much as soon as she heard that Georgie was safe, and is now taking great delight in the absurdity of it all.

Sasha’s glad that at least one of them is having fun. She’s still trying to figure out whether or not Gerry,  _ a bloody fucking phoenix,  _ can legally be charged with the murder of a highly respected public figure. (She eventually settles on,  _ probably not.) _

“Alright, well,” Sasha interjects, interrupting the small spot of bickering that Jon and Melanie had gotten into while she hadn’t been paying attention. “No offense, but you can’t stay here forever. So, what’s next?”

Jon leans back in his seat, shifting his fingers so that they’re laced through Martin’s. Concerns about potential repercussions aside, he looks... _ different,  _ now that he has his heart back. Not lighter per se, but...more himself, perhaps? It’s hard to describe.

His smiles glow now, at least. They definitely didn’t used to do that.

“Rebuild the castle,” Jon says, giving Gerry and Martin a searching look even as he says it, checking their reactions. They both nod, and his shoulders relax. “It won’t take that long. And then...live, I suppose.”

“I’d like to travel again,” Gerry says brightly, his eyes flickering a sunny yellow at the idea. “It’s been ages since I’ve gone west.”

Jon’s face tightens briefly at that, before smoothing into neutrality. Sasha sympathizes; much as she respects and understands his decision, she’ll be sad to see him go, too.

“I’m staying with Jon,” Martin declares quietly, squeezing Jon’s hand, completely missing the besotted look that Jon gives him in response.

“You’ll get no arguments from me,” he says shyly.

_ Huh,  _ Sasha thinks, her heart going all wistful and soft as she watches them.  _ Guess true love really does save the day. _

Then she freezes. Turns to look at Tim, who’s been quietly sitting at her side all this time, his cheek cupped in his hand.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” she breathes, and then leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek.

For a moment nothing happens, and disappointment surges through her, because—what had she  _ thought  _ would happen? Of course it wasn’t that easy—

Then Tim twitches. His limbs seize up, and he falls out of the chair in a clumsy heap, joints clattering loudly as he lands on the wooden floor. Sasha stares down at him, eyes wide, breathless with hope—

There’s a burst of heady, potent magic, and then Tim, wonderfully human, shoots upright, heaving for air, his eyes wide with shock and panic. Sasha drops to the ground next to him and scoops him into her arms, rocking him back and forth, crying into his shoulder, marveling at the fact that he’s just as warm, just as solid as she remembers.

“You dick!” She shouts, and gently smacks him over the back of the head before hugging him tight again. He just holds her back, looking too shell-shocked to even attempt a response. “Don’t you ever do that again!”

_ “Sasha,”  _ he gasps, and his voice is painfully harsh, painfully hoarse. He winds his fingers through her hair and grips onto the back of her shirt and begins to tremble so hard she starts to wonder if she should be worried about him going into shock.

“Is that Prince Timothy  _ fucking _ Stoker?” she hears Martin whisper frantically from somewhere behind her, while Jon hacks fitfully on a mouthful of tea.

“Listen, I know I’m not being paid,” Gerry says, voice dry as a desert, “But even if I was, this would be way,  _ way  _ above my fucking pay grade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of you who are curious - nikola's curse _was_ meant to be broken by true love's kiss. however, this isnt romantic timsasha (i hc sasha as aroace lol). sasha and tim are platonic soulmates, and that's a true enough love for the curse! 
> 
> one chapter left, but im planning on it being pretty short, so it'll probably be out soon. thanks so much for coming on this wild journey with me, and i hope you enjoy the final chapter of jmc!


	19. Chapter 19

Jon wakes, and the first thing he sees is Martin’s face. His curls are sprayed in a ginger halo around his head, glowing faintly in the weak sunlight that filters through the curtains, cheek is smooshed deep into the pillow, a line of drool running down his chin. Jon curls his fingers into his palms with a fond smile, amused and endeared in equal measure.

He lies there for a moment, his thoughts slow and syrupy, enjoying the heavy warmth of the blankets. Revels in the indulgence of a lie-in, basks in the glow of gentle adoration he has for the man beside him. Marvels that not too long ago, these feelings were as foreign as if they were on the other side of the world.

He sits up with a sigh, biting on a chuckle when his movements disturb the nearest cat, Lady Zaranthia. She lets out an indignant _mrow!,_ jumps from the bed, and pads imperiously away, her tail a long, fluffy banner waving behind her. Further down, Marmalade opens one filmy, sleepy eye to see what’s going on, before sighing and settling back down.

“Sorry Zara,” he whispers, before leaning over and laying a faint kiss just above Martin’s cheekbone. Martin stirs, his nose scrunching with disgruntlement, then lets out an unintelligible mutter and rolls over, nestling deeper under the covers.

Jon smiles, charmed despite himself, and leaves the comfortable bed with a sigh.

Beansprout intercepts him on his way past Martin’s room, shooting out of nowhere and twining around his legs and meowing up a storm. He barely manages to stabilize himself against the wall of the hallway, breath stuttering at the thought of toppling onto the overly-friendly cat.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one day,” Jon scolds, even as he kneels and gathers the massive, fluffy tomcat into his arms. Beansprout ignores the reprimand, just nuzzles under his chin and begins purring happily, pleased as anything. He rolls his eyes and continues down the hall, idly scratching behind Beanie’s ears as he goes.

The floorboards of the kitchen are cold enough that Jon shivers as he goes through the motions of making tea. Doing so while holding Beansprout may be difficult, but it _does_ keep his upper half warm at least. And Beansprout loves being held so much that Jon couldn’t bear to put him down anyway.

A few minutes later, he’s settling into the chair next to the fire with a cup of strong black tea spiced with cardamom, orange, and cinnamon, cut by a splash of milk. Beansprout spreads out over his lap, his tail so long that it spills like a waterfall over the arm rest, still purring happily.

Jon sets the mug on the stones that make up the hearth, clearing his throat as he adjusts the angle of the handle once, twice. The fire has long since gone cold, and Jon hesitates before adding a new log and setting it aflame with a flick of his hand. He just sits there for a moment, watching the fire come to life, absently petting an increasingly sleepy Beanie. Mentally feels for the connection that pulses in his chest, that’s as familiar to him as the air in his lungs.

Finally he says, his voice swallowed up by the soft crackle of the fire, “Not a lot has changed since we last talked.”

He pauses to take a sip of tea, resting his hand in Beansprout’s fur. Wood pops sharply in the quiet, and the smell of smoke grows stronger, but not overpoweringly so. He shifts, clears his throat, and sets the tea back down.

“Sasha says that she managed to get that project of hers approved. Apparently some of the noblemen were dragging their feet, but Sasha can be...very persuasive.” He sighs and leans against the stones, holding Beansprout securely in place. “She’d never admit it, of course, but ever since she brought Tim back and stopped the war, I think she has a lot more weight to throw around.”

He smiles fondly at the thought. Sasha has always been ambitious, almost restless with the desire to become more than what she is. She seems happy enough with the new responsibilities she was given by the royal family, responsibilities which have her running around the capital at odd hours. Even if he doesn’t quite understand it, he’s happy for her.

“Georgie’s finally moved all the way into Rollins. It was only a matter of time, of course, what with how well the relationship is going. I’ve never... _heard_ of a magic shop that also sells baked goods? But Melanie’s working it as best she can. I think I saw her putting up a sign that said, ‘Magically delicious!’, which is just...asinine.” He wrinkles his nose. “Martin tells me not to provoke her, but—but you know how it is.”

He pauses for a moment. Sniffs, takes another sip of tea, strokes his hand down Beansprout’s back. His toes are still cold. He wishes that he’d put on a pair of socks before coming down.

“Martin’s doing well. Same as he ever is, I guess. You—you haven’t met Marmalade yet, but—did I tell you about Marmalade? Martin, well, he’s a bit of a soft touch, you know.” Jon waves an exasperated hand. “We ran into Aria the other day at the market, and _she_ mentioned that this old tomcat had been at the shelter for a year or so and he was getting on in age, and how disappointed she was that he was probably never going to get adopted, and—well, Martin just turned and looked at me, and…” he laughs, embarrassed. “We have a fourth cat now, I guess.

“Martin’s magic education is still going well. Although, I’m starting to run out of things to teach him. I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t start looking for a teacher who specializes in the Web?” Jon considers that for a moment, then shakes his head. “I can’t just have any random person teaching Martin, though. I—sometimes I wish I had your gift of foresight.”

The fire burns on, scattering light across the stones, over the veins running through his hands. Jon sighs and rests his elbow on the edge of the hearth, putting his cheek in his hand. Beansprout sleeps on, seemingly unconcerned by how much Jon is moving around in his seat, and how little room he has to stretch out.

“Um—you’ve been gone for about a couple of months now. I know that you—you said you’d be gone for a while, and that’s, that’s fine. But I— _we,_ that is…” he runs a hand through his hair, frowning. “We hope that you’re doing well, and that you’re...you’re going to come home soon? Obviously I would never want you to cut your travels short for our sake, but…I always prefer to have you around, Gerry.” He clears his throat. He’s never quite gotten over feeling silly and maudlin about talking to the fire in place of his best friend. “That’s all, I suppose. Nothing else to report.”

“I can’t decide if that’s sweet or depressing,” a wry, familiar voice says from behind him.

Jon turns around, accidentally dislodging Beansprout, who tumbles to the floor with a shocked _mrrr!_ He ignores the disgruntled cat, because—

“Gerry!” he breathes, and runs over to give the phoenix a hug.

He looks the same as he ever has; long black hair that’s been braided into a bun, rusty red roots, his eyes a happy, sunny yellow. There’s a metal bar through one ear now, and the cartilage of the other is dripping with silver chains, which Jon is pretty sure is a style from up north.

Gerry lets out a huff of laughter and tucks Jon under his chin, as warm and cozy as he remembers. “Missed you too.”

They stand there for a moment, just holding onto each other, relieved to be together after so long. Jon bites his lip around a, _how long will you be staying?_ He doesn’t want to bring down the mood when Gerry’s only just got back.

Eventually, Jon pushes away and squints up at the chains swaying from the arch of his ear. “What _are_ you wearing?”

“You like it?” Gerry asks, touching the glinting metal cuff. “It’s _all_ the rage.”

Jon frowns. “Where?”

 _“_ They're all over the place, Jon. I saw them in Ilar on my way here. Don't you ever get out of the house?”

Jon tries to remember if he’s seen anyone wearing new things on their ears recently, and comes up empty. Then again, Martin’s always teasing him for how little he pays attention to new fashion trends and such. It’s not that he doesn’t care—he just has a very specific style that he feels no desire to change for the fickle whims of people’s collective tastes.

“I…” he studies the ear pieces, smiling despite himself when Gerry shakes his head demonstratively, rattling the chains. “I suppose it _does_ look nice.”

Gerry brightens. “I bet it’d look good on you. We could even make it practical, too, put a protective enchantment on it—”

“Alright,” Martin groans, interrupting Gerry mid sentence. They both look over to see him standing at the base of the stairs, blinking blearily at them, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He brought the rest of the cats with him; Lady Zaranthia and Toast are currently making a beeline for the kitchen, while Marmalade is held tightly to his chest. _“What_ sort of scheme are you trying to get my husband caught up in now?”

“Martin!” Gerry chirps, delighted. Martin only has enough time to set Marmie gently on the floor before getting swept up into a hug.

“Hello, love,” Martin mutters, curling his arms around Gerry, wrapping them both in the blanket. _“Mmmm,_ warm.”

Jon watches them fondly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth at the sight of his two favorite people in one place. Even if it won’t last, he’s happy that they’re all together. Then he shakes his head, and goes to put the kettle on.

A few minutes later they’re all seated around the dinner table, nursing their respective cups of tea. Toast and Lady Zara are curled up in Gerry’s lap—he’s incredibly warm, which means that he’s their favorite—while Beansprout and Marmalade are snoozing nearby.

Martin looks substantially more awake now that he’s gotten his tea. “I think you’d look quite fetching with a piercing like that,” he’s saying, hiding his mouth behind one hand. There's a faint dusting of pink along his cheeks. “It’d suit you.”

Jon’s warming up to the idea as well. It _does_ look pretty cool. “If you say so.”

“I don’t mean to change the subject,” Gerry interrupts, and jabs a finger in Marmie’s direction. “But have you two gotten another cat? I don’t recognize that one.”

“Oh, that’s Marmalade!” Martin’s blushing again, but this time it’s clearly embarrassment. “I—you know, Aria said that he’s been at the shelter for a few years now, and they’d given up on anyone adopting him, and…”

“Martin’s a soft touch,” Jon mutters dryly into his tea, hiding a smile at the betrayed look Martin shoots him.

“You’re one to talk,” Gerry says, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “How long did it take for Martin to convince you to get the cat? Five minutes?”

Jon opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He...doesn’t know how to respond to that without making himself look worse. Martin had only had to give Jon a wide-eyed, pleading look before he’d folded like a deck of soft, spineless cards.

“Anyway,” Martin says, shaking his head and visibly deciding to change the subject. “You’ve come at a good time. We’re all meeting for dinner tonight, Tim and Danny included.”

Gerry raises a surprised eyebrow. “I thought that they were very busy with their princely duties, or whatever?”

Jon makes a dismissive gesture. “I think Sasha pulled some strings to get them a night off? I try not to pry too much into her methods.” He’s pretty sure that she has enough blackmail on the majority of the nobility to cause a revolt if she really wanted to. Luckily, she’s dedicated to using her powers for the improvement of society rather than its destruction.

“Good old Sasha,” Gerry says with a grin, clearly having read between the lines.

“She’ll be thrilled to see you,” Martin tells him earnestly, politely ignoring the subtext. “Georgie and Melanie, too. I think Georgie’s making eclairs too, which are just _divine.”_

Gerry’s grin softens into something more fond, more genuine. Joy and love and something more bittersweet emanates from the other end of the bond, and Jon curls his hand over his heart, closing his eyes, sinking into the emotion. “I’d like that.”

“Excellent,” Martin says, reaching over and folding Jon’s hand in his, the gesture brimming with tacit understanding. "Now, you _must_ tell us about all your adventures."

"Oh, I have so much to tell you," Gerry says. When Jon lets go of his heart and reaches out, Gerry's already there, threading their fingers together. Jon loves them both very, very much. "On my way to the western continent, I..."

* * *

Later that night they’re all sitting around the hearth, enjoying the chocolate and strawberry eclairs that Georgie had made for desert. Gerry's been regaling Sasha and Melanie with tales of his adventures, and every once in a while their laughter rings rich and full across the room. A short distance away, Danny and Tim have been shamelessly needling Georgie for her eclair recipe, who's remained admirably tight-lipped. The cats have all found laps to sit on, except for Lady Zaranthia, who is observing the gathering from the top of the fridge, as imperious as a queen on her throne.

Martin leans back against the counter, arms folded over his chest, just taking it all in. Thinks about the fact that three years ago, he was stuck in an unsatisfying job, trudging down the same weary path he always had, only because he didn’t know what else to do.

After a moment he feels a warm presence at his side, a bony hip bump into his. Jon’s voice is low and concerned as he whispers, “Are you alright?”

Martin thinks about that for a moment, feeling at the strange, complicated knot of emotion that rests just beside his heart. He eventually drapes an arm over Jon’s shoulders, tucking the smaller man under his chin. “Yeah, just...just a bit overwhelmed. In a good way, though.”

“Oh,” Jon says, wrapping his arm around Martin’s waist and cuddling close. “Good.”

On the other side of the room, Gerry’s burnt-orange gaze turns their way, checking to see where they've gone. He relaxes when he sees them, his smile going all soft and fond, before focusing back on the conversation at hand.

“Want to sit down?” Martin asks, resting his cheek against Jon’s temple.

Jon stares at the others, and the look in his eyes is almost a perfect reflection of the cautious, wondering feeling in Martin’s chest. Martin only has eyes for Jon, though—the delicate silver bells that Gerry had braided into his hair earlier that day, the graceful tumble of his skirt, the smile that plays faintly on the curve of his lips.

“Let’s just...stay here for a bit,” Jon says, and closes his eyes, taking shelter in the curve of Martin’s frame.

“Okay,” Martin agrees, and presses a lingering kiss to the top of Jon’s head. "Just for a bit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me:.....yeah that seems gay enough. post it.  
> also!! martin finally got to eat his fucking eclair!!! good for him!!!
> 
> anyway: thank you SO much for coming with me on this journey! im obviously sad that the fic is over, but im also proud of how far it's come. special thank you to everyone who created art for this fic, and to the people who helped with its development. i love yall so much <3333

**Author's Note:**

> hmu at iceeckos12.tumblr.com!
> 
> Note that this is a very tentative chapter count and may be a little higher or lower. 
> 
> ~~Also....if anyone wants any of the recipes that Martin makes throughout the fic just hmu because ive made all of them~~
> 
> I got way more interest than I expected re: the recipes, so I just created a post on tumblr, and will be adding to it throughout the fic. Here's the [Link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/623711029788114944/jmc-recipe-masterpost)  
> Happy cooking everyone!
> 
> Art:  
> Eden did some absolutely lovely character designs based on jmc, check them out!!  
>  [link](https://junkyard-of-eden.tumblr.com/post/639257857062256640/i-read-iceeckos12-jons-moving-castle-and-felt)  
> Finally, I forgot that I wrote some snippets of jmc for a writing challenge on tumblr, so if anyone wants to read:  
> Before the beginning:  
> sometime in jon and gerry's past: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/624118840557748224/before-the-beggining)  
> the first time oliver meets jon: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/624128735455674368/if-your-still-up-for-it-before-the-beginning-c)  
> a conversation that directly precedes the events which lead to jon getting cursed: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/629114558732222464/before-the-beginning)  
> Ch2:  
> gerry's pov for when martin first comes to the castle: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/624110361338052609/pov)  
> Ch4:  
> gerry's pov for the first time martin gives him food: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/624218389717581824/probably-waaaay-missed-the-boat-but-if-youre)  
> jon's pov for when martin was making the pasta sauce: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/624117879336484864/for-the-writing-meme-pov-also-get-yourself-a-cup)  
> Ch8:  
> jon's pov for when martin touches jon and gerry's bond: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/624115042557820928/pov-jon-or-gerry-after-martin-touches-their-bond)  
> gerry's pov for when jon is teaching martin how to See: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/624111509553938433/pov-for-the-scene-in-jons-moving-castle-where-jon)  
> Ch9:  
> jon's pov of when he finally sees martin's face clearly: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/629118930266488832/pov-jon-seeing-martins-lovely-face-for-the-first)  
> Ch12:  
> gerry's pov of when jon brings martin home: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/629109837750501376/pov-all-details-are-up-to-you-d)  
> Ch13:  
> jon's pov of ch13, when martin is first seeing the sky over tellorin: [link](https://iceeckos12.tumblr.com/post/629116420669784064/ice-you-make-the-good-words-are-you-some-form-of)  
> 


End file.
